Meanwhile Mrs. Mason’s son failed to recover, and she failed to come back, and kept on writing letters and begging for one week more. Grandpa wrote to her to take all the time she wanted, until it was more than a month later.
At the end of that time I brought Grandpa my accounts. He was sitting by the big library table with the droplight, reading a book about the dairy industry in Denmark, when I came and stood quietly, with the account book, and the price lists, and all.
“What is it, my dear?” he asked, looking at me so pleasantly that it made me think of Mother. We’d had a lovely supper that night.
I asked if I might interrupt him long enough to “give an account of my stewardship,” and he smiled and made room by his chair for me. Then I showed him all that I’d bought, what I’d paid for it, and that I had a good quarter of the money he’d given me left over.
“What’s this?” he said.
“What I’ve saved,” I answered proudly. He knew how well we’d lived, too. Then he got out the old accounts and looked at them.
“How do you explain the difference, child?” he asked.
I told him I paid cash, in quantity, with one delivery a week — that saved some. That I had bought only what was needed — that saved more. “The closets are full of extra stuff,” I told him, “and some of it is spoiled.”
“But twenty-five percent,” he said. “A whole quarter of the table expenses!”
I said I was not sure — could not be — but that one of the maids thought... and so on.
Then he called in Gerta and questioned her until she cried, but she stood her ground and told him what the market boys had said — all of them.
Grandpa was awfully angry.
It was no use for me to try to placate him and say I understood it was frequently done — just a sort of commission for patronage. He has very strict views about honesty, my grandfather has.
Mrs. Mason never came back.
CHAPTER SIX
Peggy wrote me that Mother was sick again, and I went home in a hurry.
Father was much too worried then to be as angry with me as he would have been otherwise. He needed me. When Mother was really sick in bed and had the doctor, then Father used to feel badly — at least he acted so.
As I grow older I am beginning to make allowances for people, to see that they do have double natures or triple or more so, and probably Father thinks that he “loves” Mother. I heard him once, talking solemn Scotch religion and morality to a Presbyterian minister out on the veranda. They sat and smoked and discussed doctrines, and argued over texts, and finally they got onto what the minister called “the sins of the flesh.” (I used to think that meant diseases — it ought to.) The minister was inclined to be a little lenient, but not Father.
“A man must keep the law!” he said. “There is no excuse for any sin. A man must leave father and mother and cleave to his wife. I have done so. I have always been true to Benigna.”
Well, if being true means sticking to her, he certainly had. But it seemed to me that Mother would have been better off if he had... prevaricated a little.
Dr. Bronson was worried; I could see that. He had known Mother so long, and he seemed really interested.
“She must go away,” he told Father. “She needs a change, and rest — perfect rest.”
She did; even I could see that. But she didn’t go; she just sat around, pale and weak, and tired-looking, and I ran the house. It didn’t seem anything, after Grandpa’s.
The doctor told her she must have a separate room and sleep more, but she never dared mention it but once. Father was furious.
“He’ll interfere between a man and his wife, will he?” he said. “We’ll have a doctor who knows the laws of decency better than that!” And Mother dropped the subject. She couldn’t bear to think of losing Dr. Bronson.
When Father scolded at Mother, which was often, I could hear in my attic because there was a stovepipe hole that was used to warm the place when they had stoves. It was covered now with a piece of tin, but tin doesn’t shut out sound much.
Besides, I fixed it so it would turn — just took out a nail or two and moved it sideways. I never could see why people are so fierce about listening. It doesn’t say in the Bible “Thou shalt not listen.” I looked, with a concordance. And there’s no law against it. You have to find out things somehow, especially if you’re handicapped by not telling lies.
I suppose really that my great Italian ancestor told lies like anything, but I can’t somehow. Too much Scotch Presbyterian and Quaker, I suppose.
When Mother was fairly well again — as well as she ever was, poor dear — I began to worry about Peggy.
Peggy was about as sweet and nice a child as ever was, but Father thwarted her so she just had to do something. She had an idea she wanted to go to college, but he set his foot down hard on that. College was no place for a woman, no daughter of his should be seen in such a place, and so on. So she had to give up that ambition. An ambition is a great deal of company — wholesome, too, I think.
Next she set her heart on music. They said she had a voice. Somebody encouraged her, and she quite blossomed out again, and wanted to take lessons and even go abroad — maybe!
That idea fared no better than the other. He said he had no money to waste on such foolishness, that the place for girls was at home, that a wife need not be an opera singer — all sorts of things like that. She could sing ballads to him in the evenings quite well enough, he said, no more was necessary.
Well, Peggy took to reading novels. I didn’t wonder. If you can’t do things yourself you have to get interested in other people’s doing them.
And then Father must cut off the novels — as far as he could. She did read some, surreptitiously, but they were no longer a real resource.
So of course I wasn’t surprised when she began to take an interest in boys, because Peggy’s a bit older than I am, and twice as pretty. And then it was worse than ever. It was bad enough to have Father looking as he did and always around, enough to drive anybody away. But Peggy was so pretty and Mother was so sweet (she loved boys; she’d have liked a houseful of them, and was always sorry she had none of her own) that they would come. Then when they asked Peggy to go anywhere, Father always refused. Always. Party, sleigh ride, skating, going to walk — anything with a young man, it made no difference, he’d forbid it. And he’d talk about it for days, as if Peggy were planning to elope with these fellows. She would blush way up to the little pale gold fuzzes around the edges of her hair, and cry, and I got so angry that I felt like being a man and calling Father out for insulting my sister.
Of course after a little she never asked to go, and tried to keep the boys away. But they would come. They’d walk home from school with her, and come to the fence down at the corner of the garden where the alley touched our place, and things like that. Father just made a business of watching Peggy and surprising her with some nice fellow. And then the things he’d say to that young man, and to her!
Well, I knew what the result would be well enough. That is as clear as daylight in most any story. A girl with a father like that, and no freedom or pleasure in her life, always rushes off and marries the wrong man. Her whole life is ruined, just by having a mean father!
I remember one morning at breakfast — it was the first of the month and a lot of bills came all together. Father did about as mean a thing as I ever saw or read of. At least he tried to.
Mother was wretched. She had a headache, hadn’t slept any, she said. I knew she hadn’t slept much, for I’d been awakened over and over, and Father was holding forth every time.
He sat there and opened all the bills, and found fault with them. Said we were careless in the housekeeping, that Mother could keep accounts no better than a child of ten, that we were extravagant.
“Look at this meat bill!” he said. “Thirty-six dollars for meat alone! It is scandalous, woman!”
“It is for three months, Angus!” said Mother. “It has not
been paid. Bills don’t grow smaller by neglect.”
“No,” said he, “they grow larger by neglect— ’tis that I am complaining of! It is care that makes them small. Intelligent care and supervision and economy. You were brought up in a loose public house where the money flowed like water — all out and none in, I may add!”
“If little came in it was because the whiskey did not flow like water!” cried Mother. She never could stand it to have him pitch on Grandpa. Besides, Grandpa made money enough, in time.
A dark red crept up to Father’s hair, which was red, too, but not so dark, and he looked around for a weapon. I don’t mean a carving knife or a poker, but for some especially mean thing to say.
The letters were all under his hand; he always made Alison bring them to him first. Peggy used to get her letters — particular ones — sent to her friend Jenny Gale sometimes, but this time by some mistake there was one for her from Ned Wallace, right under Father’s hand. It even had the name printed on the corner — one of his father’s office envelopes. Ned was a new one and hadn’t learned how things were with us. He was Peggy’s richest admirer, but I liked him the least of all. I don’t think she cared much for him really, but felt rather vain of his attentions. He had a bad reputation — they said he was very fast, had had to leave college in disgrace, and that’s why his parents sent him abroad.
And now here was Father, ugly as could be, holding this letter in his hand. That was a weapon indeed.
“Aha!” he said. “Now we shall have a little entertainment.”
Peggy looked frightened and desperate. Mother saw what he had and how Peggy looked, and she got very white.
“You aren’t going to read my letter!” cried poor Peggy.
“Would you insinuate that your father was not a gentleman?” he asked her. “Should I read another person’s letters, like a meddlesome woman? By no means, Miss Margaret MacAvelly. But you are going to read the letter — aloud.”
He handed it to her.
“Read the letter. It will doubtless be very amusing,” he went on. “Let us hear what your friend, Mr. Wallace, has to say. Is he the elegant young clothes-horse I found you walking with last week, in disobedience to my express commands?”
“No, I can’t!” said Peggy, and held her letter tight.
“We will now see the virtue of obedience, as developed by the kindergarten method,” said Father to poor Mother. “You will observe, madam, how your efforts at child culture have fared.”
Peggy looked desperately at Mother and Mother began to straighten up and catch her breath. She was going to say something that I knew would make it worse — when the bell rang. I started to go to the door, with other plans in view, but Father took me by the elbow and sat me down again.
“Sit down!” he said. “You have not been excused. We are not through with our breakfast, let alone our letters. Alison McNab will go to the door.”
Which Alison did, announcing a gentleman to see Father.
“Show him in here,” Father said. “We shall not be interrupted in our meals.” And in came Billy Anderson.
Peggy gave a little gasp — she couldn’t help it. But I just looked once at him, a sort of sharp warning look, and then at my plate. Billy was an old schoolmate of ours, and had always hung around after Peggy, but I think she didn’t value him much. He was an ordinary sort of boy, and when he left school rather early to go to work she hadn’t missed him; there were plenty of more attractive fellows.
Well, Father saw the jump Peggy gave and he turned around in his chair and looked the boy over. He remembered him, too. Billy used to walk home from school with Peggy — persistently.
“It is rather early, is it not, to call upon young ladies?” he asked.
Bill felt that he was not exactly persona grata, I guess.
“Excuse me, Mr. MacAvelly,” he said. “I am pleased to see Mrs. MacAvelly and your daughters” (with a little bow), “but my business is with you.”
“And what is your business with me, young man?” demanded Father. “State your business at once, if you please.”
Then Billy, with evident reluctance, had to say that he called about Bliss & Company’s bill, as they had put the matter in the hands of his agency to collect.
I had heard that his last job was with a bill collecting agency, but I never thought he’d come collecting bills from Father!
I can’t remember all Father said, but I did admire Billy. He kept his temper perfectly, made a little compliment to Mother, and got in a reassuring smile at Peggy. Father showed him the door, but he got out with undisturbed dignity, and left the bill.
Then Father returned to the charge, angrier than ever.
“I admire your taste in suitors!” he said to Peggy, “and your suitor’s taste in occupation. To dun on one’s own account is despicable enough, but to make a business of hounding gentlemen in their own homes on other men’s accounts — getting a paltry commission, I’ve no doubt — making a beggarly living out of the temporary embarrassments of their betters— ’tis a cross between a bailiff and a jackal! Will you ring the bell for some hot coffee, madam? And now let us hear that letter!”
Peggy didn’t know how to get out of it. She wasn’t a bit inventive. Mother tried to shield her, but Father turned on her with such cutting and disagreeable words that she grew frantic in her helplessness, and was rising from her chair to do I don’t know what when Alison came in with the coffee.
Then I jumped up and took it from her, turned to set it by Mother, caught my foot on something and stumbled. The coffee went all across the table. Father pushed back his chair to avoid the floor. “You awkward gowk!” he cried.
Peggy jumped up with a scream.
“Are you hurt, Peggy?” I cried, running to her, and began to wipe off the coffee with my napkin, getting the letter away from her as I did so.
Mother had dropped into her chair. I thought she’d faint. And Alison came running to clear up things.
Then I slipped out through the gate to get Dr. Bronson, who lived close by. I told him he must come quick. And it was time somebody came, for Father was storming at Peggy and Mother was standing between them. Of course it stopped as soon as Dr. Bronson came in. I told him about the accident and he looked at Peggy’s hand, but more at Mother, and Father concluded to go downtown.
Mother was hysterical and, well, queer. The doctor insisted that she should go to bed and gave her bromide. When he came down I was waiting for him.
“Doctor,” I said, “What is the matter with Mother? Why doesn’t she get better? Isn’t there anything we can do?”
He stood looking at me, pulling on his gloves. “Your mother must go away,” he said. “Must, if she is to get back her strength.”
“Father won’t let her,” I said. “There isn’t any money. She won’t leave us. She told me it was no use, when you said that last summer, that she might as well die here as anywhere!”
“Look here, Benigna,” he said, “I’ve known you since you were a baby, and you have a good head for a child. Now you and Peggy must get your mother away. She cannot stand this much longer. I have spoken to your father about it. She must have quiet, plenty of sleep, rest, and relief from all anxiety and irritation.” And off he went. It’s easy for doctors to say what you must do.
Father had set his foot down that it was all nonsense — that a woman’s place was at home — that nothing ailed Mother but “nerves,” which last was true enough — it wasn’t muscles, nor bones.
I went down to the end of the garden that afternoon to think it out. There was a sort of little summerhouse on the lowest terrace, well shaded, right near the fence, and there was Peggy talking to Ned Wallace! Peggy was excited, I could see that much, and he... well, she let him put his arm around her. And I know she never would have done that if she’d been... rational. Peggy was as careful as could be.
I walked slowly along with my head down, thinking, and by the time I’d got to the arbor he was gone. And Peggy didn’t say anything
about him. I said to myself, “My sister is having secrets from me, and it looks as if something serious was doing. And it’s not Love — I know that much. He’s just taking advantage of her excitement.”
After that I got more and more worried about Peggy. She grew very affectionate with Mother — very. She started to hang around and do things for her, and bring flowers, and read to her, and sit and look at her with tears slowly filling her blue eyes and rolling over.
“Aha, Miss Peggy,” I said to myself. “You are planning to leave her, that’s why you are so devoted. If it were fear that she’d leave you, you’d look scared, and you don’t look scared, you look sorry!”
Then she was sometimes more patient with Father. She even went up and kissed him now and then, and Father never encouraged that sort of “foolishness,” as he called it. And other times she would almost defy him, as she never used to dare. She’d just set her lips and look stubborn but yet hopeful, as much as to say: “I can stand it — it’s not for very long.” I was sure of it.
I knew she met young Wallace on the way to school, just casually, and in the garden too sometimes. Father suspected as much too, and one beautiful moonlit night he announced at supper that he should be out all the evening, and not likely to be in until late.
Off slipped Peggy to her room, and though she came back in a minute I went up too presently, and found she had left the gas lit and pulled the burner way out so it would show.
“She’s going to meet him, and Father is going to catch them,” I said, and slipped down to warn her. But she’d gone already and all I could do was to trot after. I went by the Gales’ yard and the alley, and got over the fence softly in the dark. Sure enough there was Ned Wallace holding her hands and begging for something — at least it looked like that. I slipped in at the door on the fence side just as Father bounced in on the other.
“As I supposed!” Father said. “Exactly as I supposed! Making appointments with young men and meeting them alone in the dark, and under the rose altogether, you indelicate young baggage!”
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 92
