Alicia was not in the least analytical. She had never tried to define just what the strain was in Morgan’s life, but she felt that there was one, and had tried in all good faith to make things pleasant for him. Possibly this habit, followed by the vague sense of his withdrawal, now urged her to more feeling than she had herself suspected.
“One,” she remarked, distinctly, but in a low voice, as the minutes passed. “Two,” he did not notice her in the least. “Three,” a little louder. “Four!” this rather explosively.
“I beg your pardon, Alicia.” He started to his feet and suggested, “Have some more tea?”
She laughed her soft laugh at that.
“Indeed, I won’t submit to any more of your tea!”
“Have some bread and butter, then — some cake—” She refused them all, with some lessening of her usual good nature.
“O, all right. Just make yourself at home then.” And he dropped back into his newspaper.
“Thank you, Cousin Morgan, I will — but in my own.” She moved to the door. “Come and see me when you are feeling pleasanter — when you’re tired of being left alone.” And Alicia departed almost petulantly.
“Good-bye, Alicia,” was all he said, and that absentmindedly. The paper no longer interested him any more than she had. The more he had turned to her for solace and companionship, the more eagerly and freely she had offered it, and to his gradual surprise, he found himself wearying of steady sweetness. Stella, now, was more refreshing when she was not so everlastingly nervous. Of late that nervousness had largely disappeared, the worrying, overinsistent affection, all that had worn and worried him. But then — so had Stella!
He walked about the room and looked out from one window and another. He rang, and interrogated the stiff-faced Hedda. “Did Mrs. Widfield say when she’d be in? No? Very well. When she comes tell her I’ll be back before six.” And after a few more futile paces up and down, and study of the remote streets, he departed.
She came in but a few moments after, very brisk, trim and cheerful, looking younger by years. Her dress was as carefully chosen as ever, but touched a new note, had a sort of business air about it, not pronounced, but visible. From her face that look of strain — of a concealed and denied hunger, as of those awaiting the last belated guest at a dinner party, had disappeared.
Just as those who suffer from “genteel poverty” strive painfully to look well dressed in spite of all deficiencies, so do many women’s faces wear that brave assumption of happiness which is evidently maintained by constant effort.
But now Stella looked frankly and easily happy, and young, because she had begun again, opened a new chapter. She went straight to her desk and seated herself with a brisk air, rapidly opening the mail and sorting it.
One big envelope contained proofs. She read the note with it asking for immediate return and glanced at the clock. Another letter was even more imperative, begging that a certain promised article be mailed that night.
She settled briskly to work — the proofs she could do before dinner, the article could get itself finished, somehow, in the evening. It was not a very important one — and was nearly done, she thought. And this sense of work being wanted promptly, of having to do things at once — whether she liked it or not — pleased her through and through.
While her blue pencil poised and darted, with an occasional stop to consult the little book she had with “Signs Used in Correcting Proof” clearly described and illustrated, Hedda opened the door and admitted a dressmaker’s girl.
She was a spare little person, in a too short skirt, a jacket that did not fit her, large worn shoes and a hat which flopped down over her eyes, a hat whose eccentricities rather held the attention.
She pushed past the maid even as she announced her, and came in, remarking in a high voice:
“Here’s your gown, madam.”
“Gown?” Mrs. Widfield was annoyed, interrupted in her hurried task. “I’m not expecting any gown. You’ve come to the wrong house, child.”
Hedda had discreetly retired, and the girl laughed as she saw Mrs. Widfield look for her.
“Stung!” she cried gaily. “I thought I could fool you! That maid was too easy.”
“Malina Peckham!” cried Stella.
“The same! I came twice, and she said you weren’t in. Now it’s my regular business to get in where I’m not wanted — I have to, or lose my job — so I thought I’d practice a bit. This is an awful easy one. Say, don’t be mad, Stella. I know I’m a nuisance; but this time I want you to help me out — really. I’ve got a big chance here, a Sunday story, ‘Society Women who Work,’ and you are my trump card. It’ll be worth twenty-five dollars to me if you’ll talk a little.”
Mrs. Widfield swallowed her anger. The appeal for help was one she was never able to resist, and her own new activities gave her a keener sympathy. But Malina’s methods and manners had become increasingly hateful to her, and she did not wish to be “interviewed,” especially about this new undertaking.
“I’m not a society woman,” she said shortly.
“Oh, yes, you are — or were. You are yet, in spite of your literary successes. Say, Stella, how did you ever get it over like this — so quick!”
“I have done very little, you know that,” Stella answered. “Just a little newspaper work, a few things in that weekly and two magazine articles. It doesn’t amount to much all put together.”
“It amounts to more than most of us ever get to, I can tell you that. You’ve hit it — everybody’s talking about you.”
This was too much, even for the new recruit. “Nonsense, Malina. You’re overestimating the whole thing. This is just a flurry, a small local interest. The work is of no real importance.”
“I’ve heard you got five cents a word for that thing in the Columbian all the same — and that you’re snowed under with orders.” This recalled to Mrs. Widfield’s mind the immediate pressure. “I have one or two — and hurry orders at that — but it’s only a fad of the public—” She took up her long blue pencil.
“No such thing,” protested Malina. “You’re turning out good stuff, all right. How on earth do you do it, and keep up all your other things? I don’t see that the house looks neglected any.”
Stella smiled amusedly. “Why should it? The maids are not affected by my new occupation — as far as I know.”
“You certainly do look better — and happier,” pursued the inquisitor.
“Oh, I am — it certainly agrees with me — being busy. But Malina, I am busy — now.”
“Yes, I know. I’ll go in a moment. But see here! Do you know that Mrs. Widdall, who’s gone into chickens? Makes lots of money they say — furnishes all her friends. I’ve got to get hold of her. And those three Garonne girls, who run that tea room just for fun — and sell their old tea! I tell you it makes me sick!” she broke off in sudden heat.
“The tea makes you sick, Malina? What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I say,” the girl burst out. “Here I am, having to work for my living and hating it like poison! Precious poor living I get, too! And here are you, just turn your hand over and make a big success! And you didn’t need it.”
Mrs. Widfield rose and spoke earnestly. “That’s where you’re entirely wrong, Malina! I did need it. I needed it as much as any starving woman in New York. There’s more than one way of starving.”
“You think so!” snapped the other. “You haven’t starved, that’s all! Well — I’ve got to go after the Chicken Lady now. Much obliged, Stella.”
She took up her big paper box, and added, with instant return of the high girlish voice, “Did you say I was to take it back, ma’am?” and let herself out, laughing.
Stella turned slowly to her desk, much irritated.
“What a fool I was to talk to her — to see her at all! She’ll have it out tomorrow, ‘Mrs. Morgan Widfield says she was starving’!” She heard the maid in the dining room, and spoke to her. “Hedda — that was Miss Peckham
you let in just now. Please notice carefully and do not let her get in again.” She returned to her beloved swivel chair and found peace in intricate blue streaks and dots.
Her husband came in while she was in the midst of it.
“O, Morgan!” She looked up with a loving smile. “Just a moment—”
Presently she laid down the proofs and came to him where he stood near the fire watching her, his gloves in his hand.
“Now, dearest, aren’t you going to take off your things and stay?”
She kissed him and tried to take his gloves, but he held them.
“I was hoping you could make that call on the Spateses with me before dinner,” he said. “It’s only next door; you know we ought to—”
“Oh, I am sorry,” she cried, and she did hate to refuse him. “I just have to finish these proofs! But Morgan, dear, do you know what day it is?”
“The fifteenth, isn’t it? Tuesday—”
“Yes, it’s the fifteenth. But it’s something more — it’s somebody’s birthday! And I’ve not forgotten it. See what I’ve got for you!”
She was smiling, flushing, eager as a child. From a tiny hidden drawer in the desk she brought a little box, a dainty, pretty thing, and offered it to him. He turned it over curiously, opened it, his face a little shadowed, and took out a scarfpin.
“That’s a beauty,” he said constrainedly. “What is it?”
“It’s an opal, a black opal.” Her eyes were shining.
“Why, Stella! A black opal? You mustn’t give me such expensive presents.”
“Mustn’t I?” She was almost dancing. “Oh, Morgan! That’s the first real present I ever gave you. I paid for it, dear! I earned the money! My own self.”
“But — you mustn’t spend it on me.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” she triumphed. “I can. I can spend it on anything I like. And you mustn’t say ‘mustn’t’ anymore.”
He turned it about gravely. “Well — thank you, my dear. Thank you very much. I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he added, securing her look unsatisfied. “You must be earning quite a bit.”
“It isn’t much,” she said in a quieter tone. “But it’s mine. I never had any money of my own before in all my life. It does feel good.”
“Why, Stella.” He spoke almost sharply. “Haven’t you had money enough?”
“Oh, darling — I didn’t mean it that way. Of course, I have. You have always been more than liberal — with the housekeeping — and the bills — and giving me presents. But I couldn’t give you presents, you see. And I like it.”
A little silence slowly rose over her enthusiasm, and while they stood there, in came Alicia for the third time, with, “Oh, Stella, you have got home then. I’ve been in twice to find you.”
“Why, yes, I’ve been here for some time. Sit down, Alicia. And will you excuse me for just a moment. I have a bit of work that must be done before dinner.”
Morgan put out a hand to detain her. “Can’t you do it later, Stella, and give me fifteen minutes for that call on the Spateses? There’s just time. Alicia won’t mind.”
“I am sorry,” she said, “awfully sorry — but this has to go off tonight, and — as to later — I’ve an article to finish after dinner.”
“Why, that’s an outrage,” he protested. “Here I’ve brought home tickets for The Pale Pretense this evening. You said you wanted to see it.”
“Oh, Morgan!” Her face clouded. “I am so disappointed! I wouldn’t have undertaken this thing if I’d known they would hurry me so. But Mr. Elderstone writes that he must have it tomorrow morning. They’ve changed the issue it’s to be in.”
Alicia sat graceful and still on a cushioned divan, looking from one to the other with her gentle smile. “How technical you are, Stella, and how businesslike and efficient! I do admire it so.” She did not look as though she admired it in the least. “Now here am I, hopelessly unbusinesslike and inefficient, with not a thing to do. I’d just love to call on the Spateses. I’d be charmed to see The Pale Pretense tonight.”
Morgan did not seize this opportunity with any alacrity, but his wife did.
“There you are, Morgan, all provided for. You take Alicia. You will both enjoy it.”
Short of pronounced rudeness there was no escape. “We’d better start at once then,” he said, without enthusiasm, and they went out together.
Stella bade them good-bye with a cordial smile, but it faded instantly. She stood for a moment, quite limp and sad, then went swiftly back to her desk, with straight-held shoulders and head erect.
“Anyhow, I’ve got my work,” she said to herself, shutting out all other thoughts.
CHAPTER 10
Alicia asked for “a minute” to put her hat on, and was so long about it that when she appeared, unusually pretty and quite pink from her haste, her cousin flatly refused to go.
“It’s quite too late now,” he said. “Besides, Stella ought to do it. They’ve been to see us twice, and Mrs. Spates has been very kind. Never mind, sis, I’ll ‘phone to Stella and stay here to dinner if you’ll let me — she’s too busy to eat — and then we’ll go to the show.”
So he telephoned to his wife, half hoping that she would remonstrate, but she answered cheerfully that it was an excellent idea, and hoped they would have a very good time — that she had no time to eat.
That ought to have pleased him, but did not, singularly enough. Alicia’s dinner was excellent; Alicia’s good nature quite returned; she was beautifully dressed and unusually charming. Also the good Colonel cheered up amazingly, and rehearsed many of his tales and saws on the inexhaustible subject of feminine deficiencies.
“Do you know they wore corsets in Crete!” he told Morgan triumphantly, full of recent information. “Corsets and high-heeled shoes, Morgan, my boy! In ancient Crete! There are plain pictures of them. I tell you women are women!”
“Didn’t they do other things too?” asked Alicia with unusual acumen. “I think I heard Mrs. MacAvelly telling somebody that there were wonderful women athletes, doing something with the horns of cattle — weren’t they?”
“Bull-grappling!” her father-in-law explained, so pleased with his new knowledge that he overlooked the mitigating circumstances of feminine achievement. “Those gigantic wide-horned ancient bulls, Morgan — quite prehistoric and extinct. Must have had cows too — terrible creatures to milk! Perhaps the cows had no horns though. But this sport of theirs — it was not bullfighting, mind — they turned somersaults over the beasts apparently, and between their great horns, six feet across or so. Tremendous!”
“Tremendous women, I should say,” Morgan remarked, and Alicia smiled upon him.
Smile as she would, and good as was the well-served meal, he was not happy. The sudden flare of success which had befallen Stella had given him such a mixture of feelings as was quite distressing. He did not like mixed feelings, especially about a woman, most especially about his wife. In his clear, strong, settled scheme of life women held a fixed place, separated of course by the great demarcation between good and bad. The bad had no demarcations, but the good varied as stars in magnitude, and his mother, his sisters, his wife, were of course among the best.
That his wife possessed a talent for writing did not materially add to his admiration, or at all to his affection for her. A gift for music would have been of more domestic satisfaction, and if it was a great gift — if she had been a potential operatic star with a proud career before her, and had given it up for him — that would have held a poignant sweetness. He had been quite thrilled as a young man by reading of this supreme renunciation in certain novels.
But this writing could not be confined to him apparently, and then he had no subtlety of comprehension in literature. He admired her cleverness, genuinely, but took no pleasure in having the public admire it. She had taken no “pen name” and he disliked seeing his own thus widely acclaimed for work not his.
Worse than all was the money. He had money enough. He had alw
ays given her money enough. To have his wife, Mrs. Morgan Widfield, publicly earning money was in no way pleasing to him.
Besides all this came the new claims upon her time, her interest. Here is where his feelings became doubly contradictory, and caused irritation. He could see that the new work gave her pleasure, and was glad. He could see that it improved her health, and was glad. He felt the relief from that exigence of overprominent affection which had so webbed him about with incessant giving and asking; there was now a fresh aloofness about his wife, a place of withdrawal where he could not come, and the more she withdrew the more he wanted her. There rose in him a recrudescence of feelings long since satisfied and outgrown. Here was not a woman wholly his and always wanting to be more so, but a woman getting out of reach and seeming to like it. She was like a girl again, a young free creature; and as she vanished he desired to pursue — and could not.
Then he was undeniably and crudely jealous of young Smith, and frankly ashamed of himself for the feeling. He trusted his wife absolutely. He had never seen the slightest cause for any suspicion. He did not in the least believe there was any. Yet he was sullenly jealous. Perhaps he felt, in hidden rivalry, the ruthless selfish power in the young man, the fact that he was using Stella as a study, the further fact that he visibly had had an influence on her life, her work. Possibly again, so circuitous are psychological channels, he confused Smith’s influence with the strong, stimulating friendship between her and Mr. Tillotson. This man he appreciated and liked; he had no shadow of feeling as to his visible goodwill for Stella, or hers for him; nevertheless, much that was really attributable to the influence of this keen-minded critic, he most illogically laid at the door of the young playwright. Sentiments have little to do with logic, in either sex.
Colonel Cushing rambled on about the palaces of old kings with their amazingly modern systems of drainage and waterworks, and Alicia was ease and smiling patience itself, but Morgan was not content. Nevertheless he made what show of it he could, and took his amiable cousin to the play.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 79
