Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  “Oh — that!” She could not help the note of relief in her voice, but tried to cover it by a little airy gesture of disparagement.

  “Yes, that, young lady. And don’t you try to underrate it — you’re too honest.”

  “I don’t think I underrate it,” she answered, quite seriously. “I have worked — but all the same, I do so honestly admire that sweet girlishness!”

  He nodded, understandingly. “Yes, but you can’t have your cake and eat it too, you know. Dissecting rooms and hospitals take out one’s girlishness — and boyishness, too, for that matter.”

  “Yes,” she agreed thoughtfully, her eyes on the ash-topped coals.

  His were quietly bent on her as he continued: “But there are compensations, aren’t there? I wouldn’t be what I was at sixteen again, would you?”

  The hand on the other side of her, the one he could not see, clenched tightly, but her face was quite calm as she remarked cheerfully: “Heaven forbid!”

  “You’re right,” he agreed heartily. “You’re worth a lot more now than you were then.”

  This had to be faced as well now as anytime. She turned dear, inquiring eyes upon him, asking:

  “How do you know?”

  But he replied lightly enough. “Why, anybody is — that isn’t a fool. When our little grandmas married at sixteen they weren’t half-ripe — just little green apples. Who wants a green apple!”

  “Boys seemed to like them,” the girl suggested.

  “Yes, and a nice pain they get, too. Men can wait.”

  A silence fell between them. She felt a panic — something must be said. She rushed back to their former topic.

  “Why don’t men — that is, a man — how does it happen that such a sweet girl as Daisy Briggs is not married?”

  “There are a great many such sweet girls as that in Boston,” he lazily suggested.

  She scorned this explanation, and made one of her own. “Perhaps she does not mean to marry.”

  “Lots of girls do not mean to marry — especially in Boston,” he agreed.

  “Aren’t you rather — caustic?”

  “Cauterization is very useful sometimes. But seriously, Dr. Yale, you are tired — even a doctor can see that. Why not take Miss Daisy’s tip and slip off to bed?”

  Margaret made no move of acquiescence, but rather argumentatively inquired: “Did I seem tired — at dinner?”

  “Do you want me to stand up, click my heels together, and make a bow with my whole spinal column with a compliment as long? At dinner you were a sparkling refutation of that old idiocy that women have no sense of humor — and can’t tell stories. But then — some temperaments do sparkle when tired — or under a strain.”

  “You are observing!” said the girl, herself noting keenly his pleasant, strong face.

  “Yes, I have to be, you know. You’ve had a long journey — all this meeting of new faces — and old ones,” he added with a whimsical smile.

  Margaret did not meet his eyes this time, but coolly inquired: “Which are the old ones?” and held her breath for his answer.

  “Well, I don’t mean to be rude,” he assured her, “but surely Miss Daisy’s face is newer than her mother’s.”

  “Oh — yes!” She drew a long breath of relief, and patted her mouth as if it had been a yawn.

  “Hadn’t you better slip off before they come back?” he suggested again.

  “You are uncomplimentary! Trying your best to be rid of me!”

  “Well — put it that way if you like.”

  “I won’t go!” she said, smiling.

  “Still a woman — however much a doctor!” He smiled too — that pleasant, understanding smile of his.

  “Well, aren’t you still a man — however much a doctor?” she flashed back at him.

  “Why not?”

  “And why not, too — or either?” she insisted.

  “Or both,” he contributed, laughing. “This is getting too subtle for me — Ah, here’s Armstrong!” And to himself he added: “I’m not surprised.”

  Dr. Armstrong did seem surprised to see him, however, and not overpleased. “You like sunlight better than moonlight — eh, Newcome?” he suggested. “So do I, Miss Yale.”

  “It must be a very poor light,” Margaret replied, “for you will persist in confusing me with my adoptive mother.”

  “I beg pardon — Dr. Yale.” He bowed impressively. “Or, Miss Margaret Yale, M.D.”

  “Very well — Mr. Richard Armstrong, M.D.”

  “She has my name already. I am complimented.”

  “Why not?” she answered quickly. “It is a well-known one.”

  Again he bowed. “Honored, I’m sure.”

  Newcome looked from one to the other and shook his head, smiling. ‘“And she began to compliment, and he began to grin!’”

  Armstrong was a little nettled. “Nobody ever’ll accuse you of complimenting, Newcome.”

  “No,” said Newcome calmly, “they don’t.”

  Margaret watched them, sensitive, observant; her nerves keyed tensely again from the moment of Armstrong’s entrance. With the other she felt more at ease in spite of his having repeatedly touched so near the hidden groundwork of her thoughts. She gave him a friendly look.

  “They like you nonetheless, I’m sure.”

  “Who are ‘they’?” Armstrong inquired, jealously.

  “Sensible women, of course,” she replied.

  “Oh!” he waved her adjective aside. “Who wants sense in a woman?”

  “That’s a lovely compliment,” drawled Newcome. “Which end will you take, Dr. Yale?”

  Margaret seemed to consider the question. “I think I’ll take the one most pleasing to my self-esteem — that Dr. Armstrong does not want me.”

  Newcome chuckled. “You’re up against it, Armstrong! Let’s see how you’ll crawl out.”

  “There’s no need for crawling,” he answered, unabashed. “I’ll boldly state that the answer to my conundrum is: I do!”

  “Bravo!” cried Newcome. “Cleverly done! How do you meet that, Dr. Yale?”

  “I do not meet it at all,” she replied, a little distantly.

  “Do!” urged Armstrong. “Meet it halfway!”

  Newcome lifted his lean height from the lounging chair.

  “I have done my errand,” he said, turning to Margaret. “Shall I tell Miss Daisy you are not as tired as you were?”

  She smiled up at him. “Tell her — more so!”

  “Oh, cruel!” cried Armstrong. “But of course you must be weary from your journey. Let me make you more comfortable. Sit in this chair, do — with the cushion — and your feet here — on this stool. Rest now — and let me amuse you.”

  She rose graciously and took the place he offered, placidly remarking: “You do, already.”

  Newcome stood at the door with a little quizzical smile. “Got the spotlight ready, Armstrong? I’ll try the moonlight again.” And he went out.

  Margaret leaned back among the cushions, quiet and serene, her still face showing nothing of any thought or feeling that might be within. Armstrong watched her admiringly.

  “He may have his moonlight — I will bask in the sun,” he said, with a seriocomic air, and arranged himself on the long rug before the fireplace.

  She watched him guardedly. His manner might mean anything or nothing — she was accustomed to admiration and to its sudden exhibition. His rather melodramatic intensity, his freedom of attitude, contrasted far from favorably with several years of not unpleasant memories. He seemed to her as somewhat strained and overblown, too long accustomed to his part, and she marveled, as many a woman had done before, that even in her starved and stunted youth she could have found in him an overwhelming charm. A sense of power and security rose in her, seeing him there before her, so near, and feeling nothing, not even dread of discovery.

  “You are astonishingly graceful, Dr. Armstrong —— —” she began.

  “Thank you,” he interrupted.
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  “For a man of your years,” she calmly finished.

  “My gratitude was premature, I see. Yet, even as modified, I am thankful to please you.”

  “You must keep pretty constantly in practice — to do it so well.”

  “Practice?” he looked up at her inquiringly.

  “Yes, lying about on rugs, in well-composed attitudes.”

  “It is my daily habit,” he agreed, disarmingly. Then, studying her face, he asked wonderingly: “How have you managed it?”

  “Managed what?”

  “To go through all those weary studies and remain so beautiful.”

  “For a woman of my years?”

  “I do not qualify my tribute,” he assured her.

  “And do you, as a daily habit, make these unqualified tributes to a stranger on an hour’s acquaintance?”

  “I cannot think of you as a stranger,” was his answer.

  Her heart jumped for a second, but she spoke calmly:

  “No? Why not?”

  He gazed upon her earnestly. “Because you are so like — so like—”

  She met his eyes. Was it coming? Now? No; it was admiration she saw there, not recognition. “Well — like whom?” She held her breath. “Like my Ideal!” quoth Dr. Armstrong, devotedly.

  Margaret laughed outright. Across her mind flashed a picture of a certain dark Italian of noble lineage, who had so lain at her feet one summer evening — but whose conversation was on quite another plane. Also of a fellow student, a young Spaniard, the exquisite, finished grace of his devotion. And Armstrong did not lack for practice, surely!

  “Well, well, Dr. Armstrong! A man of your reputation — with ideals!” Perhaps she laid a shadow too much emphasis on the words. “What do you mean by ‘my reputation’?” he asked.

  But she replied pleasantly: “Aren’t you one of the most eminent gynecologists in America?”

  He smiled relievedly. “Oh — you do me too much honor!”

  “No—” she slowly answered. “I don’t think I do.” But this time her voice was quite smooth and he felt no undercurrent of meaning.

  “As you please,” he said. “Only do not think that I speak to all women as I speak to you.”

  “I suppose,” she mischievously suggested, “that even with your wide experience you have not met all women.”

  He did not in the least relish being made fun of by a handsome woman; he was not used to it.

  “My experience?” he repeated inquiringly.

  “Yes — experience. An eminent gynecologist has to have wide experience among women, doesn’t he?”

  “Professionally, yes,” he agreed. “But it does not by any means follow that he is experienced in affairs of the heart.”

  This she admitted: “No — but — it sometimes precedes.”

  “How brilliant you are, Miss Yale. Never with all my ‘experience’ have I met with such wit — such humor — or such eyes!”

  She began to be sorry for him — he played so badly — and foolhardily replied, looking straight at him:

  “I am sure you must have seen just such eyes.”

  “Never in my life!” he protested. “Nor have I heard so rich and soft a voice.”

  Again she tempted fate. “Now, really, Dr. Armstrong, you must have heard just such a voice.”

  “Never,” he protested. “Is it possible that you do not realize the unusual charm of your voice?”

  They heard steps now; the others were returning, Daisy laughingly offering to see Gerald home, and being promptly taken at her word. Her mother cried after her that it was more than bedtime, but Miss Yale remarked that Daisy was certainly old enough to know when to go to bed — and further, that she was, in any case, and departed upstairs at once.

  The days that followed were strange ones to Margaret. She grew more and more attracted to Daisy’s simple sweetness and quiet strength.

  “It’s a shame that girl has not been allowed to do something,” she told Miss Yale. “There’s plenty of time yet — I know she would be happier.”

  “She won’t be happy, to my mind, unless she marries that young Battlesmith,” her friend answered. “I guess we made a mountain out of a molehill about Dr. Armstrong. ‘You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink!’ And he doesn’t know you from Adam, Margaret. We might as well have our visit out — if you can stand it.”

  Margaret said she could stand it perfectly — that she was even enjoying it. She seemed in truth to derive a certain satisfaction from the complex possibilities around her, her confidence growing as the days passed; and her continued acceptance in her new character made it more unlikely that the old one would ever be recognized.

  She spent long, happy days with Dorothy, walking on the steep mountain roads, picking blackberries and raspberries and thimble berries — though Dolly declared she did not like the last at all. “They taste like pink flannel,” she said. In sheltered spots some huckleberries were left and the child was eager to show her the best places and to fill her little pail. This, too, was a pleasure to Margaret. No years of foreign fruit could obliterate her fondness for huckleberries. The very sound of the black shining stream of them as they poured thumping into the pan, their bobbing ebony spots in the bowl of milk, their endless deliciousness in cornbread and gingerbread, muffins, griddle cakes, puddings and pies — she could not have enough of them! And blueberries, too: little thick ground blueberries that knocked against her feet; big spreading thickets where one might sit for hours and pick quart after quart; and the very tall swamp bushes that one had to reach up to, with huge blue halls hanging overhead. She remembered the berries of her childhood’s hills as lovingly as she hated balsam fir.

  They grew very friendly together, little Dorothy and her “big sister”; but the child always seemed to draw the line at a certain depth of affection, or any note of authority. It was hard to tell what was going on in her youthful mind; but she evidently had firm ideas of her own as to the conduct appropriate to various degrees of relationship.

  Dr. Armstrong sought Newcome’s room one night, too full of new emotion to sleep. He was greeted hospitably and offered a chair, but waved it aside, and clapped his friend upon the shoulder with stinging emphasis.

  “By all the Prophets, Newcome — I’m hard hit this time!” Newcome turned and regarded him whimsically, rubbing his shoulder, and remarking: “So am I!”

  Armstrong looked at him with sudden jealous suspicion, then laughed at his rueful face. “That’s the only kind of shock you seem to feel, old man. But by all the Graces and Muses — what a stunner she is!”

  Newcome agreed with an unenthusiastic “Urn — hm,” which by no means satisfied his friend.

  “You old iceberg!” he rejoined. “Whatever has got into you? Anybody’d think you were ninety-five instead of thirty-five. How any man can look at that woman and not fall in love with her on the instant, I don’t see. Such hair — such color — such a shape!”

  “Such brains! Such courage! Such achievements!”

  “Oh, hang the achievements! What do I care for achievements? She’s a lovely woman — the loveliest I ever saw!”

  His friend regarded him with quiet amusement, at least that was all that showed in his expression. “I thought you didn’t approve of women doctors,” he said.

  “I don’t,” Armstrong retorted. “A woman is a woman, and that’s enough. Anything beyond that makes her ridiculous.”

  “But it is a woman doctor you are speaking of so highly — isn’t it?”

  “Just the foolishness of youth, Newcome — nothing better to do. She’ll outgrow it.” With which sage pronouncement Dr. Armstrong seated himself in the most comfortable chair and lit a large cigar.

  “She’s been some time in growing it, Armstrong. Do you really imagine she would give up her profession even if she — married? No — I won’t smoke, thank you.”

  “Give it up? Certainly — like a shot!” said the other. “As soon as she falls in love. Any woman would —
that is a woman.” He puffed a little, and added soberly: “What merciful power has kept her from it all these years and brought her to me, I don’t know. But I’ll take advantage of my opportunity, I assure you — and ask no questions.”

  “Questions? About what?”

  “About anything,” Armstrong continued. “Of course no woman of her splendid beauty could reach twenty without lovers in plenty — and she must be twenty-five, you see — by her record. I judge,” this he put forth most seriously as one past master in the secrets of the feminine heart, “I judge she’s had some early heartbreak or other — and renounced marriage. A girl will do that you know — and mean it too. It doesn’t generally last so long, but then she might have been hard hit. Chap died, I imagine. No man alive could have left her. And to think of that lovely creature wasting all these years in this professional foolishness—”

  “Her record is not a foolish one, Armstrong.”

  “Not if it were a man’s, of course, Newcome — but anything’s foolish for a woman except what the good Lord made her for. Well, she’s been mercifully preserved, that’s all I can say!”

  “Mercifully preserved for you?” Newcome’s tone was close to sarcasm, but it passed unnoticed. Armstrong’s nature was not subtle. He was a straightforward, self-indulgent, powerful man, and such deeps as he possessed were now genuinely stirred.

  “Perhaps!” he agreed seriously. “By heavens, Newcome, it may be. I never felt like this before.”

  Newcome leaned back his head and smiled broadly. “I’ve often heard you say so before,” he remarked.

  “Oh, of course — of course — I know that,” Armstrong admitted, getting up and moving about the room. “I’ve been in love no end of times — that’s nothing! This is different, I tell you. You never heard me talk of marriage on a week’s acquaintance before — did you?” This was freely admitted. “No, I can’t say I did. But I’ve seen you raving about in much the same way — lots of times. There was that little Sayles girl—”

  “Oh, pshaw! Lasted about three months!” Armstrong waved away the little Sayles girl as if she had never existed.