Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  ‘Your father is dead,’ remarked the voice.

  ‘Yes, Mother, we know — we know how you feel,’ Ellen ventured.

  ‘I am alive,’ said Mrs McPherson.

  ‘Dear Mother, it’s very trying to talk business to you at such a time. We all realize it,’ Adelaide explained with a touch of asperity, ‘But we told you we couldn’t stay as soon as we got here.’

  ‘And the business has to be settled,’ James added conclusively.

  ‘It is settled.’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Frankland can make it clear to you,’ went on James with forced patience.

  ‘I do not doubt that your mother understands perfectly,’ murmured the lawyer. ‘I have always found her a woman of remarkable intelligence.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Frankland. Possibly you may be able to make my children understand that this property — such as it is — is mine now.’

  ‘Why assuredly, assuredly, Mrs McPherson. We all see that. But we assume, as a matter of course, that you will consider Mr McPherson’s wishes in regard to the disposition of the estate.’

  ‘I have considered Mr McPherson’s wishes for thirty years,’ she replied. ‘Now, I’ll consider mine. I have done my duty since the day I married him. It it eleven hundred days — to-day.’ The last with sudden intensity.

  ‘But madam, your children —— —’

  ‘I have no children, Mr Frankland. I have two daughters and a son. These two grown persons here, grown up, married, having children of their own — or ought to have — were my children. I did my duty by them, and they did their duty by me — and would yet, no doubt.’ The tone changed suddenly. ‘But they don’t have to. I’m tired of duty.’

  The little group of listeners looked up, startled.

  ‘You don’t know how things have been going on here,’ the voice went on. ‘I didn’t trouble you with my affairs. But I’ll tell you now. When your father saw fit to make over the property to me — to save it — and when he knew that he hadn’t many years to live, I took hold of things. I had to have a nurse for your father — and a doctor coming: the house was a sort of hospital, so I made it a little more so. I had a half a dozen patients and nurses here — and made money by it. I ran the garden — kept cows — raised my own chickens — worked out doors — slept out of doors. I’m a stronger woman to-day than I ever was in my life!’

  She stood up, tall, strong and straight, and drew a deep breath.

  ‘Your father’s property amounted to about $8,000 when he died,’ she continued. ‘That would be $4,000 to James and $2,000 to each of the girls. That I’m willing to give you now — each of you — in your own name. But if my daughters will take my advice, they’d better let me send them the yearly income — in cash — to spend as they like. It is good for a woman to have some money of her own.’

  ‘I think you are right, Mother,’ said Adelaide.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ murmured Ellen.

  ‘Don’t you need it yourself, Mother?’ asked James, with a sudden feeling of tenderness for the stiff figure in black.

  ‘No, James, I shall keep the ranch, you see. I have good reliable help. I’ve made $2,000 a year — clear — off it so far, and now I’ve rented it for that to a doctor friend of mine — woman doctor.’

  ‘I think you have done remarkably well, Mrs McPherson — wonderfully well,’ said Mr Frankland.

  ‘And you’ll have an income of $2,000 a year,’ said Adelaide incredulously.

  ‘You’ll come and live with me, won’t you,’ ventured Ellen.

  ‘Thank you, my dear, I will not.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome in my big house,’ said Adelaide.

  ‘No thank you, my dear.’

  ‘I don’t doubt Maude will be glad to have you,’ James rather hesitatingly offered.

  ‘I do. I doubt it very much. No thank you, my dear.’

  ‘But what are you going to do?’

  Ellen seemed genuinely concerned.

  ‘I’m going to do what I never did before. I’m going to live!’

  With a firm swift step, the tall figure moved to the windows and pulled up the lowered shades. The brilliant Colorado sunshine poured into the room. She threw off the long black veil.

  ‘That’s borrowed,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to hurt your feelings at the funeral.’

  She unbuttoned the long black cloak and dropped it at her feet, standing there in the full sunlight, a little flushed and smiling, dressed in a well-made traveling suit of dull mixed colors.

  ‘If you want to know my plans, I’ll tell you. I’ve got $6,000 of my own. I earned it in three years — off my little rancho-sanitarium. One thousand I have put in the savings bank — to bring me back from anywhere on earth, and to put me in an old lady’s home if it is necessary. Here is an agreement with a cremation company. They’ll import me, if necessary, and have me duly — expurgated — or they don’t get the money. But I’ve got $5,000 to play with, and I’m going to play.’

  Her daughters looked shocked.

  ‘Why Mother—’

  ‘At your age—’

  James drew down his upper lip and looked like his father.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t any of you understand,’ she continued more quietly. ‘But it doesn’t matter any more. Thirty years I’ve given you — and your father. Now I’ll have thirty years of my own.’

  ‘Are you — are you sure you’re — well, Mother,’ Ellen urged with real anxiety.

  Her mother laughed outright.

  ‘Well, really well, never was better, have been doing business up to to-day — good medical testimony that. No question of my sanity, my dears! I want you to grasp the fact that your mother is a Real Person with some interests of her own and half a lifetime yet. The first twenty didn’t count for much — I was growing up and couldn’t help myself. The last thirty have been — hard. James perhaps realizes that more than you girls, but you all know it. Now, I’m free.’

  ‘Where do you mean to go, Mother?’ James asked.

  She looked around the little circle with a serene air of decision and replied.

  ‘To New Zealand. I’ve always wanted to go there,’ she pursued. ‘Now I’m going. And to Australia — and Tasmania — and Madagascar — and Terra del Fuego. I shall be gone some time.’

  They separated that night — three going East, one West.

  THE JUMPING-OFF PLACE

  Two new guests were expected at The Jumping-off Place that night. The establishment was really too full already of Professors, Professorins and — shall we take a lingual liberty and say Professorinii?

  The extra ones however had special claims in the mind of Miss Shortridge; claims well weighed by her when she answered their letters.

  The Reverend Joseph Whitcomb had been one of her oldest and most honored friends; her minister for some thirty years. She could remember as if of yesterday the hot still Sunday in late May when he was installed in the white wooden church; the warm approval of the entire congregation, with the possible exception of the two oldest deacons and Miss Makepeace — whose name belied her; the instant and continuous adoration of the women, young and old; their artless efforts to attract his attention, win his favor — she herself among the eagerest, worshipping devoutly and afar; — and the chill that fell upon them all when after a few years of this idolatry he brought home a wife after his vacation absence.

  A higher call, with a higher salary attached, had taken him to the big city afterward, and in later days she had sat under him there, still worshipping, though with a chastened adoration. It was nine years since she had left that city: —

  He had heard of the excellence of her accommodation, his letter read; the quiet intellectual atmosphere of the place — could she be his old parishioner, Miss Shortridge, of Brooktown? And could she put him up for a week or so?

  Then she had asked one of the young unmarried Professors if he would mind having his bill reduced three dollars, and sleeping in the woodshed chamber, for a week; and by a comfortable coin
cidence of desires he was very glad to.

  The other letter she was slower in answering.

  ‘Can it be possible that you are the Jean Shortridge I used to know in Brooktown?’ this ran. ‘Perhaps you won’t remember me — Bessie Moore that was — then Mrs Paul Olcott — now Mrs Weatherby. I’m not at all strong, and I’ve heard of your place as being so refined and quiet, with really excellent food and beds, and very reasonable prices. Could you give me a nice room for two weeks or a month — a large comfortable room, near a bathroom corner room if possible, and not too many stairs — and what would you charge an old friend?’

  There was just one such room unrented, and that was Miss Shortridge’s own. With a fortitude rare among those who give board and lodging, she always retained for herself a restful, convenient, quiet room; and enjoyed it.

  She read Mrs Weatherby’s letter over more than once, her amused smile growing as she studied it.

  ‘I believe I will,’ she said to herself at length, ‘just for the fun of it. I can manage to dress in the garret for a little while. It won’t affect my sleeping, anyhow.’

  So she wrote to both that for a week’s time she would gladly accommodate them, and found continuing entertainment in the days before their coming in memories and speculations.

  ‘You’re not really going to give up your room at last,’ protestingly inquired Mrs Professor Joran, who had tried vainly to secure it for a friend.

  ‘Only for a week,’ Miss Shortridge explained, ‘and under rather exceptional circumstances: The lady coming was a — I have known her since early girlhood.’

  The advent of Dr Whitcomb excited more discussion, and was hailed with a better grace, as no one begrudged the young unmarried Professor’s room, while many had desired Miss Shortridge’s. They were all extremely polite to their entertainer, however, she not being, so to speak, a professional; taking only a few during the summer months to accommodate; and accommodating beyond the dreams of local competitors.

  No professional comments reached her ears regarding the expected arrivals, but she in her own mind, dwelt upon them with growing interest. She remembered Bessie Moore with sharp, almost painful clearness, from the day she was ‘teacher’s pet’ in school, up through her pink and ringleted girlhood, to the white delicacy of her beauty as a bride.

  Miss Shortridge had seen her twice as a bride — and as long as she lived would remember those occasions. She could see her still, at nineteen, standing there in soft veiled whiteness, her small face, pink as a rose beneath the tulle, beside Paul Olcott with his slim young dignity and serious, intellectual face; while she, plain Jean Shortridge, sat, watching, with a pain in her heart that she had honestly believed would kill her.

  Not dying, she had gone away to work; and twelve years later found her comfortably established in the office of Horace Weatherby; his trusted, valued and fairly well-paid secretary.

  Slowly, and not unnaturally, through long association she had grown to think more and more of this rather burly and florid gentleman, a successful man, cold and peremptory with subordinates, yet always distinctly courteous to a woman of any class.

  As a married man her thoughts of him had been but distantly admiring; when she knew him a widower she had allowed herself to sympathize, afar; when he grew more gracious and approachable with the passing of time, why then— ‘What an uncommon old fool I must have been!’ said Miss Shortridge to herself, as she summoned those days before her.

  Yet she was not old then, only thirty-five, and if a fool, by no means an uncommon one. She had lived in a fool’s paradise for a while, it is true, building castles in Spain out of the veriest sticks and straws of friendliness. And then one day, in a burst of exceptionable cordiality, he had invited her to his wedding. And she had gone, veiled, shrinking behind a pillar, scarce able to force herself there, yet wholly unable to stay away.

  There was the big, impressive church, her church too, though she hardly knew it with these accessories of carpets, canopies, carriages, crowds; its heaped flowers and triumphant bursts of music. And then, up the aisle, pinker and plumper than ever, in tightly gleaming pearl gray satin, with pearls and lace and a profusion of orange blossoms — Bessie Moore again!

  And that was more than twenty years ago!

  As the slow train struggled on from little town to little town, its crushed commuters scattering like popped com at every station, Mrs Horace Weatherby speculated more and more as to the impressive clerical figure a few seats in front of her. The broad square shoulders, the thick gray hair with a wave that was almost a curl — surely she had seen them somewhere.

  Sudden need for a glass of water took her down the aisle beyond him, and a returning view brought recognition.

  ‘Dr Whitcomb! — Oh this is a pleasure! Do you remember an old parishioner?’

  The reverend gentleman rose to the occasion with that marked deference and suave address which had always distinguished his manner to ladies. Remember her! He did indeed. Had he not twice had the privilege of marrying her — with its invaluable perquisite!

  Mrs Weatherby could still blush at fifty-three, and did so, prettily.

  ‘It’s a great pleasure to meet you, I’m sure,’ she said; and then in a burst of intuition— ‘perhaps you’re going to Jean Shortridge’s too!’

  He complimented her on her marvelous perception— ‘I am indeed! And you also? — What a pleasure!’

  ‘I’ve heard such nice things of her place,’ said the lady. ‘Some friends of mine knew a Professor’s family from Lincoln, Nebraska, that went there — they said it was ideal!’

  ‘We are very fortunate, I am sure,’ agreed Dr Whitcomb, ‘though our stay is but a short one.’

  ‘If I like it I shall stay,’ the lady asserted, smiling. ‘She’d never turn out an old friend.’

  ‘You have known her a long time?’ he inquired.

  ‘O mercy, yes! Since we were babies. She was such a plain little thing — poor dear! — with her hair combed straight back, and a skimpy little pigtail. Grew up plain, too — as you may remember! She had a Sunday school class, you know, in your church. She was a good girl, and clever in a way; clever at books; but not at all brilliant. I think — I don’t know as it’s any harm to say it after all these years — but I think she was very much in love with my first husband — before he married me, of course.’

  Dr Whitcomb looked gravely interested, and made appropriate murmurs as occasion allowed.

  ‘She went to the city to work after that,’ continued the lady in continuous flow, ‘and the next I heard of her — years later — she was secretary to Mr Weatherby — or had been. That was before I married him. And then — when did I hear of her next? O, yes. My sister met her somewhere about ten years ago. She must have been all of fifty then! — How time does fly!’

  ‘The lady must be much older than you, I am sure,’ said Dr Whitcomb.

  ‘Yes, she is; quite a little; but I’m old enough!’ She smiled archly.

  ‘Exactly old enough — and not a bit more,’ he promptly agreed.

  ‘Luly said she was a perfect wreck!’ Mrs Weatherby continued. ‘Looked sixty instead of fifty, and so shabby! I don’t know what she’s done with herself since, I’m sure, but she’s somehow got the place at Crosswater (where they have that scientific summer school — fish and things — ) and takes boarders in summer — that’s all I know.’

  ‘It will be very interesting for you to see her again,’ he suggested. ‘So many old memories.’

  ‘Some very sad ones, Dr Whitcomb,’ murmured the lady, and was easily led or rather was not to be withheld from confiding to his practiced ear the sorrows of her life.

  As a recipient of women’s griefs Dr Whitcomb was past master; and this assortment was not a novel one. The first husband had proved a consumptive. There were four little children, three little graves, one grown son, always delicate, now haunting the southwest in search of health; with even more of a shadow on his mother’s face in speaking of him than his invalid
ism alone seemed to justify.

  Then the husband’s early death — her utter loss — her loneliness — did he blame her for marrying again?

  Indeed he did not. Marriage was an honorable estate; women especially needed a protecting arm. He trusted that her later happiness had overcome the memory of pain.

  But here the appeal to his sympathies was stronger than before.

  ‘O, Dr Whitcomb! You don’t know! I can never tell anyone all I’ve been through! I lived with Mr Weatherby for twenty years — it was a martyrdom. Dr Whitcomb!’

  The worthy doctor had a fairly accurate knowledge of his former wealthy parishioner’s life and character, and he nodded his head in grave sympathy, the long clean-shaven upper lip pursed solemnly.

  ‘It was not only drink, Dr Whitcomb — that I could have forgiven! — It is such a relief to speak to you! — Of course I never say a word against him — but you know!’

  ‘I do indeed, Mrs Weatherby. You have my sincerest sympathy. You have suffered much — but suffering often leads us Heavenward!’

  Meanwhile the lady did not forget a truth long known to her — that men like sympathy as well as women — and presently drew from him the admission that his health was far from good, asthma admitted, other troubles merely hinted at; and that widower-hood was also lonely.

  He did not, however, confide to her the uncertain condition of his financial outlook; his lifelong inability to save; his increasing difficulty in finding a pulpit to satisfy his pride — or even his necessity.

  Nor did she, for all her fluent recital, hint at the sad deficiencies revealed when the estate of the late Horace Weatherby came to settlement; which was indeed unnecessary, for he had heard these facts.

  The Crosswater stage took them, swaying and joggling in its lean-cushioned seats, through the shadowy afternoon woods and along a sluggish brook that curved through encroaching bushes and spread lazily out in successive ponds, starred with white lilies.