Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  Ellphalet grinned.

  ‘Well, I don’t want your mother,’ said he: ‘not by a long chalk. And this lady is to pay a dollar a day right along and you’re to bank it in your name — here’s the book.’

  Maria took the book and looked at it. Eight hundred dollars were set down already to her credit.

  ‘Why,’Liphalet, where’d you get this?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Sold the river lot,’ he answered, and tipped back his chair to its farthest, looking at her with narrowed eyes from under the brim of his hat.

  A dull red color rose on Mrs Johnson’s faded face.

  ‘That was my lot,’ said she slowly. ‘My father gave it to me when he died and I never meant to have had it sold in the world.’

  ‘You don’t know nothin’ about business an’ never will,’ said Ellphalet. ‘But now you pay ‘tention to this and see if you can understand it. Here’s the deeds of this house, store an’ all an’ all the furniture and stock. All in your name. Now, the reason of it is that I’ve got creditors who might clean me out any time, but if I can tide over this year I’ll get over it all right. For this year the hull property’s in your name and none of my creditors can touch it. See? As to that lot ‘twan’t no more yours than this house was or the farm — they all come from your father, but when you married me it made ’em mine, and it ought to. A man supports the family. He’s got to hold the property. But for this year it’s in your name.’

  The year passed slowly. Mrs Johnson grew to understand somewhat of the value of her position and to do more and more of the business.

  In truth, though she never owned to her most intimate friend that ‘Liphalet drinked!’ this sad fact was now becoming painfully apparent.

  Much had Mrs Johnson suffered in the fifteen years of her laborious marriage. She had worked, on the average, fifteen hours a day, and lost much sleep besides. She had put into the family all its real estate, and really kept the store. She had borne and reared four children and lost two, and out of all this she had learned nothing until what she thought the last straw turned out to be a blessing in disguise. That was the lady boarder. If Mr Johnson had dreamed of that worthy woman’s real position he would never have placed his conservative spare chamber at her disposal.

  But he did not suspect, and never learned until it was too late.

  She was a lawyer, and in spite of the absolute prohibition of all brain work for three months, she had brought with her a few little calf-bound books from force of habit.

  So it chanced that Mrs Johnson, in the invigorating freshness of new acquaintance, was led to read somewhat in the penal and civil codes of her native State. Moreover, the boarder, moved by a strong sense of human kindness to this struggling woman and seeing the responsibilities of life with wider reach, urged upon her a new view of her duties to her children and the world.

  Wherefore, it came to pass that when Ellphalet waked up one morning very late, indeed, after a little heavier drinking than was usual to him, and called vainly, with quite advanced profanity, for his faithful wife, he found her not in attendance.

  Somewhat sobered by surprise he arose and searched the house.

  No wife, no child, no boarder!

  And a little later, to his incredulous horror and amazement, he discovered that the house and store, stock, furniture and farm had been sold over his head, and the proceeds had disappeared with his wife.

  She left him a letter, however, in which it was set forth that if he gave up drinking and became a self-supporting citizen she would gladly receive him again as a husband — on her own terms.

  In the meantime she would allow him $30 a month, to be paid to him personally on application to her lawyer, whose address she enclosed.

  For herself she had gone into business independently, and should do well by the children.

  Ellphalet read the letter repeatedly.

  The name of the lawyer confused him.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ said he. ‘Elizabeth Burton! Great Scott!’

  Then the deserted husband took up the burden of life.

  It made a new man of him.

  AN ELOPEMENT

  THE little town of Midgeville was full of excitement. The women made hasty and unwarranted calls on one another to discuss the subject of the hour; and the men were more numerous than usual in the ‘store,’ considering the time of day.

  Even the minister was much exercised in his mind; and he had more reason than most of the others for Belle Jenkins had been his right-hand woman in church and Sunday-schools.

  Not that she was over-pious — not nearly as pious as old Sister Greenman, or Widow Peters, but she had been widely and practically useful, and an overworked minister appreciates that.

  And that she should suddenly vary the monotony of her quiet, busy life by so strange and unlooked for a step as this was unaccountable.

  ‘Have you heard,’ asked eager Miss Pendleton of Mrs Andrews, ‘have you heard the news?’

  Mrs Andrews, by blessed chance, had not, and Miss Pendleton unburdened herself triumphantly. ‘Belle Jenkins has eloped!’

  ‘Well, of all things,’ said Mrs Andrews, and then she followed up this exclamation by the question which was on everybody’s lips. ‘Who with?’

  ‘That’s just what we don’t know yet,’ Miss Pendleton answered, shaking her lean little head till her earrings rattled. ‘There’s nobody missin’ in the village, so she must a joined somebody somewheres else.’ She left home in the middle of the night, it appears — before day at any rate, and walked to Barnford and took train for Boston — that is, we think it’s for Boston. She took the Boston train at any rate. How we happen to know that much is only chance.

  ‘Old Miss Merrit, that’s been sick so long, you know, was lookin’ out the winder some time in the night — she thinks ’twas near mornin’ — and see her go by the gate, walkin’ real fast. She says she’d swear to her step anywhere. There’s no other woman in town can walk so fast and such long steps like a man.

  ‘Miss Merrit thought of hollerin’ to her, but she’d got clean past before she could open the window, and she just concluded there was somebody sick down in the Holler and they’d sent for her. You know she’s a splendid nurse.

  ‘And then Mr Winterbottom come home early this morning from Barnford, and he was waitin’ for the up train when the other one come in and just as ’twas startin’ off, there come a woman runnin’ with a bag and just scrambled onto the last car — much as her life was worth.

  ‘He run forward to help her — or to stop her, more likely — and he says ’twas Belle Jenkins!

  ‘She had a veil on and she just rushed inside the car, but he says he’d know her anywhere. You know she nursed his wife last winter. She’s the best nurse, for a young woman, I ever saw.’

  Miss Pendleton paused for breath, and Mrs Andrews returned to her original inquiry:

  ‘Who can it be she’s gone with? John Martin was payin’ attention to her, but it ain’t him. She hasn’t had a beau from anywhere else, has she?’

  ‘Nobody knows,’ said Miss Pendleton. ‘She’s been away from home a good deal these last years, and her mother has been real anxious about her often. She’s had correspondence, her mother says, with a doctor from Boston that Mrs Elder in Barnford had for awhile, and Belle was nursin’ her and met him. And her mother thinks it’s him.’

  But ain’t it awful! Belle’s mother had the sympathy of the community, yet it is doubtful if she deserved it. She was a close-fisted, narrow-minded woman, and had kept her daughters with a strictness suitable only to an old-fashioned nursery, regardless of her twenty-three years.

  She lived with her sister, both able-bodied sturdy New England women, in a little house on the outskirts of the town, ran a farm successfully, rented a larger house in Barnford, and with all this abundance lived as penuriously as if she had depended on the few dollars Belle earned by nursing.

  For some people insisted on paying her, she did so much and so well. Belle never complained, and t
herefore the busy-tongued town knew nothing of how the mother demanded every cent she earned and allowed her so little that the poor girl’s shabbiness was taken to indicate the same miserly spirit as actuated her parent. Nothing of the years of repression and exaction, the constant watching and critical supervision, the hard, loveless life that made Belle’s home, was known in the town, or the violent quarrel between her and her mother that last evening because she refused to show a letter at her mother’s harsh demand. If they had known her life they might not have found it strange that so young a woman immersed herself in church work and the care of the sick.

  Now she had eloped, and no one ever knew with whom. No news of the lost girl came to the home of her childhood for some years.

  Then information was brought, and by the proud Miss Pendleton. ‘I’ve had a letter from my cousin in Boston,’ said she to the eager sewing circle. ‘And what do you think! Belle Jenkins never eloped at all — that is, not with a man. She just went to the hospital and studied to be a trained nurse, and now she gets $20 a week and expenses! And she’s been to Europe with a crippled girl and her mother! And she says when her mother needs her she’ll come and do for her — not before!’

  ‘Well, I never!’ said the sewing circle.

  THROUGH THIS

  THE dawn colors creep up my bedroom wall, softly, slowly.

  Darkness, dim gray, dull blue, soft lavender, clear pink, pale yellow, warm gold — sunlight.

  A new day.

  With the great sunrise great thoughts come.

  I rise with the world. I live, I can help. Here close at hand lie the sweet home duties through which my life shall touch the others! Through this man made happier and stronger by my living; through these rosy babies sleeping here in the growing light; through this small, sweet, well-ordered home, whose restful influence shall touch all comers; through me too, perhaps — there’s the baker, I must get up, or this bright purpose fades.

  How well the fire burns! Its swift kindling and gathering roar speak of accomplishment. The rich odor of coffee steals through the house.

  John likes morning-glories on the breakfast table — scented flowers are better with lighter meals. All is ready — healthful, dainty, delicious.

  The clean-aproned little ones smile milky-mouthed over their bowls of mush. John kisses me good-bye so happily.

  Through this dear work, well done, I shall reach, I shall help — but I must get the dishes done and not dream.

  ‘Good morning! Soap, please, the same kind. Coffee, rice, two boxes of gelatine. That’s all, I think. Oh — crackers! Good morning.’

  There, I forgot the eggs! I can make these go, I guess. Now to soak the tapioca. Now the beets on, they take so long. I’ll bake the potatoes — they don’t go in yet. Now babykins must have her bath and nap.

  A clean hour and a half before dinner. I can get those little nightgowns cut and basted. How bright the sun is! Amaranth lies on the grass under the rosebush, stretching her paws among the warm, green blades. The kittens tumble over her. She’s brought them three mice this week. Baby and Jack are on the warm grass too — happy, safe, well. Careful, dear! Don’t go away from little sister!

  By and by when they are grown, I can — O there! the bell!

  Ah, well! — yes — I’d like to have joined. I believe in it, but I can’t now. Home duties forbid. This is my work. Through this, in time — there’s the bell again, and it waked the baby!

  As if I could buy a sewing machine every week! I’ll put out a bulletin, stating my needs for the benefit of agents. I don’t believe in buying at the door anyway, yet I suppose they must live. Yes, dear! Mamma’s coming!

  I wonder if torchon would look better, or Hamburg? It’s softer but it looks older. Oh, here’s that knit edging grandma sent me. Bless her dear heart!

  There! I meant to have swept the bed-room this morning so as to have more time to-morrow. Perhaps I can before dinner. It does look dreadfully. I’ll just put the potatoes in. Baked potatoes are so good! I love to see Jack dig into them with his little spoon.

  John says I cook steak better than anyone he ever saw.

  Yes, dear?

  Is that so? Why, I should think they’d know better. Can’t the people do anything about it?

  Why no — not personally — but I should think you might. What are men for if they can’t keep the city in order.

  Cream on the pudding, dear?

  That was a good dinner. I like to cook. I think housework is noble if you do it in a right spirit.

  That pipe must be seen to before long. I’ll speak to John about it. Coal’s pretty low, too.

  Guess I’ll put on my best boots, I want to run down town for a few moments — in case mother comes and can stay with baby. I wonder if mother wouldn’t like to join that — she has time enough. But she doesn’t seem a bit interested in outside things. I ought to take baby out in her carriage, but it’s so heavy with Jack, and yet Jack can’t walk a great way. Besides, if mother comes I needn’t. Maybe we’ll all go in the car — but that’s such an undertaking! Three o’clock!

  Jack! Jack! Don’t do that — here — wait a moment.

  I ought to answer Jennie’s letter. She writes such splendid things, but I don’t go with her in half she says. A woman cannot do that way and keep a family going. I’ll write to her this evening.

  Of course, if one could, I’d like as well as anyone to be in those great live currents of thought and action. Jennie and I were full of it in school. How long ago that seems. But I never thought then of being so happy. Jennie isn’t happy, I know — she can’t be, poor thing, till she’s a wife and mother.

  O, there comes mother! Jack, deary, open the gate for Grandma! So glad you could come, mother dear! Can you stay awhile and let me go down town on a few errands?

  Mother looks real tired. I wish she would go out more and have some outside interests. Mary and the children are too much for her, I think. Harry ought not to have brought them home. Mother needs rest. She’s brought up one family.

  There, I’ve forgotten my list, I hurried so. Thread, elastic, buttons; what was that other thing? Maybe I’ll think of it.

  How awfully cheap! How can they make them at that price! Three, please. I guess with these I can make the others last through the year. They’re so pretty, too. How much are these? Jack’s got to have a new coat before long — not to-day.

  O, dear! I’ve missed that car, and mother can’t stay after five! I’ll cut across and hurry.

  Why, the milk hasn’t come, and John’s got to go out early tonight. I wish election was over.

  I’m sorry, dear, but the milk was so late I couldn’t make it. Yes, I’ll speak to him. O, no, I guess not; he’s a very reliable man, usually, and the milk’s good. Hush, hush, baby! Papa’s talking!

  Good night, dear, don’t be too late.

  Sleep, baby, sleep!

  The large stars are the sheep,

  The little stars are the lambs, I guess,

  And the fair moon is the shepherdess.

  Sleep, baby, sleep!

  How pretty they look. Thank God, they keep so well.

  It’s no use, I can’t write a letter to-night — especially to Jennie. I’m too tired. I’ll go to bed early. John hates to have me wait up for him late. I’ll go now, if it is before dark — then get up early tomorrow and get the sweeping done. How loud the crickets are! The evening shades creep down my bedroom wall — softly — slowly.

  Warm gold — pale yellow — clear pink — soft lavender — dull blue — dim gray-darkness.

  THE MISLEADING OF PENDLETON OAKS

  There’s many a trick to the red, red fox —

  The white snake well can please —

  And the tree-toad hides behind the box

  Beside your very knees.

  But the smiling guile of a witch-eyed girl

  Is deeper far than these.

  THE SECOND DAUGHTER

  It all came of not understanding a new country.

  W
hen Pendleton Oaks came to Santa Barbara from home he came direct.

  That is, he did not stop in Boston or New York, or even Chicago — in fact, he did not come across country at all, but through the Gulf and over the Isthmus.

  He preferred to travel that way. Therefore to him Santa Barbara and her customs were the United States of America. He took no note of certain cities on the Atlantic seaboard otherwise known to fame.

  Preconceived opinions are not useful in traveling. They are good furniture in home life, however. Which is why you find so many of them there.

  When a man is a stranger and a pilgrim, and the people of a country are kind to him, he ought to treat their local customs with respect; but Pendleton Oaks did not do this.

  He held that at home they knew how to live, but that in Santa Barbara all men were yahoos — savages. So he came to the Orchester tennis court in the clothes he wore in the stable, and lifted, slightly, to the Orchester girls, the hat of a ranchman. Pendleton enjoyed his ranch, and was proud of it. He wrote large letters home of the yard-long grape bunches, and the eucalyptus tree that grows thirty feet in a year.

  But he did not mention the Orchester girls. There were two of them, Maisie and Maud. It was a pity that both their names began with M. You will see the reason later.

  Santa Barbara was gay that winter. The Delmars were there with their new bowling alley, and the beautiful Miss Easter and her sister Lou and Ella Sandhurst, and the Conway girl that sang.

  There were young men, too, but most of them were only Americans. Still, the dancing parties were very pleasant, and the bowling parties in between; for the Orchester girls attended all these festivities, and so did Pendleton Oaks.

  It was not his fault that he could not tell which one of them preferred him. He knew which one he preferred, and said so, clearly, to the rest of the fellows. Miss Maud was the one for him. And yet, sometimes, when Miss Maisie was more than commonly gracious, he wished again that he knew which one preferred him. One did, that was certain. Or else it was both. Certain little notes and invitations — all proper enough in their way — seemed to him to speak volumes in the first person, as well as phrases in the third, but all these much-regarded missives were signed only with an M. ‘M. Orchester.’