‘I see,’ said Joan, ‘I see.’
Then after a little— ‘Emma — are you contented?’
‘Contented? Why, of course I am. It would be a sin not to be. The girls are well married — I’m happy about them both. This is a real comfortable house, and it runs itself — my Matilda is a jewel if ever there was one. And she don’t mind company — likes to do for ‘em. Yes — I’ve nothing to worry about.’
‘Your health’s good — that I can see,’ her sister remarked, regarding with approval her clear complexion and bright eyes.
‘Yes — I’ve nothing to complain about — that I know of,’ Emma admitted, but among her causes for thankfulness she did not even mention Arthur, nor seem to think of him till Dr Joan seriously inquired her opinion as to his state of health.
‘His health? Arthur’s? Why he’s always well. Never had a sick day in his life — except now and then he’s had a kind of a breakdown,’ she added as an afterthought.
Dr Joan Bascom made acquaintances in the little town, both professional and social. She entered upon her practise, taking it over from the failing hands of old Dr Braithwaite — her first friend, and feeling very much at home in the old place. Her sister’s house furnished two comfortable rooms downstairs, and a large bedroom above. ‘There’s plenty of room now the girls are gone,’ they both assured her.
Then, safely ensconced and established, Dr Joan began a secret campaign to alienate the affections of her brother-in law. Not for herself — oh no! If ever in earlier years she had felt the need of some one to cling to, it was long, long ago. What she sought was to free him from the tentacles — without re-entanglement.
She bought a noble gramophone with a set of first-class records, told her sister smilingly that she didn’t have to listen, and Emma would sit sulkily in the back room on the other side of the house, while her husband and sister enjoyed the music. She grew used to it in time, she said, and drew nearer, sitting on the porch perhaps; but Arthur had his long denied pleasure in peace.
It seemed to stir him strangely. He would rise and walk, a new fire in his eyes, a new firmness about the patient mouth, and Dr Joan fed the fire with talk and books and pictures with study of maps and sailing lists and accounts of economical tours.
‘I don’t see what you two find so interesting in all that stuff about music and those composers,’ Emma would say. ‘I never did care for foreign parts — musicians are all foreigners, anyway.’
Arthur never quarrelled with her; he only grew quiet and lost that interested sparkle of the eye when she discussed the subject.
Then one day, Mrs Peebles being once more at her club, content and yet aspiring, Dr Joan made bold attack upon her brother-in-law’s principles.
‘Arthur,’ she said. ‘Have you confidence in me as a physician?’
‘I have,’ he said briskly. ‘Rather consult you than any doctor I ever saw.’
‘Will you let me prescribe for you if I tell you you need it?’
‘I sure will.’
‘Will you take the prescription?’
‘Of course I’ll take it — no matter how it tastes.’
‘Very well. I prescribe two years in Europe.’
He stared at her, startled.
‘I mean it. You’re in a more serious condition than you think. I want you to cut clear — and travel. For two years.’
He still stared at her. ‘But Emma—’
‘Never mind about Emma. She owns the house. She’s got enough money to clothe herself — and I’m paying enough board to keep everything going. Emma don’t need you.’
‘But the store—’
‘Sell the store.’
‘Sell it! That’s easy said. Who’ll buy it?’
‘I will. Yes — I mean it. You give me easy terms and I’ll take the store off your hands. It ought to be worth seven or eight thousand dollars, oughtn’t it — stock and all?’
He assented, dumbly.
‘Well, I’ll buy it. You can live abroad for two years, on a couple of thousand, or twenty-five hundred — a man of your tastes. You know those accounts we’ve read — it can be done easily. Then you’ll have five thousand or so to come back to — and can invest it in something better than that shop. Will you do it — ?’
He was full of protests, of impossibilities.
She met them firmly. ‘Nonsense! You can too. She doesn’t need you, at all — she may later. No — the girls don’t need you — and they may later. Now is your time — now. They say the Japanese sow their wild oats after they’re fifty — suppose you do! You can’t be so very wild on that much money, but you can spend a year in Germany — learn the language — go to the opera — take walking trips in the Tyrol — in Switzerland; see England, Scotland, Ireland, France, Belgium, Denmark — you can do a lot in two years.’
He stared at her fascinated.
‘Why not? Why not be your own man for once in your life — do what you want to — not what other people want you to?’
He murmured something as to ‘duty’ — but she took him up sharply.
‘If ever a man on earth has done his duty, Arthur Peebles, you have. You’ve taken care of your mother while she was perfectly able to take care of herself; of your sisters, long after they were; and of a wholly able-bodied wife. At present she does not need you the least bit in the world.’
‘Now that’s pretty strong,’ he protested. ‘Emma’d miss me — I know she’d miss me—’
Dr Bascom looked at him affectionately. ‘There couldn’t a better thing happen to Emma — or to you, for that matter — than to have her miss you, real hard.’
‘I know she’d never consent to my going,’ he insisted, wistfully.
‘That’s the advantage of my interference,’ she replied serenely. ‘You surely have a right to choose your doctor, and your doctor is seriously concerned about your health and orders foreign travel — rest — change — and music.’
‘But Emma—’
‘Now, Arthur Peebles, forget Emma for awhile — I’ll take care of her. And look here — let me tell you another thing — a change like this will do her good.’
He stared at her, puzzled.
‘I mean it. Having you away will give her a chance to stand up. Your letters — about those places — will interest her. She may want to go, sometime. Try it.’
He wavered at this. Those who too patiently serve as props sometimes underrate the possibilities of the vine.
‘Don’t discuss it with her — that will make endless trouble. Fix up the papers for my taking over the store — I’ll draw you a check, and you get the next boat for England, and make your plans from there. Here’s a banking address that will take care of your letters and checks—’
The thing was done! Done before Emma had time to protest. Done, and she left gasping to upbraid her sister.
Joan was kind, patient, firm as adamant.
‘But how it looks, Joan — what will people think of me! To be left deserted — like this!’
‘People will think according to what we tell them and to how you behave, Emma Peebles. If you simply say that Arthur was far from well and I advised him to take a foreign trip — and if you forget yourself for once, and show a little natural feeling for him — you’ll find no trouble at all.’
For her own sake the selfish woman, made more so by her husband’s unselfishness, accepted the position. Yes — Arthur had gone abroad for his health — Dr Bascom was much worried about him — chance of a complete breakdown, she said. Wasn’t it pretty sudden? Yes — the doctor hurried him off. He was in England — going to take a walking trip — she did not know when he’d be back. The store? He’d sold it.
Dr Bascom engaged a competent manager who ran that store successfully, more so than had the unenterprising Mr Peebles. She made it a good paying business, which he ultimately bought back and found no longer a burden.
But Emma was the principal charge. With talk, with books, with Arthur’s letters followed carefully on maps,
with trips to see the girls, trips in which travelling lost its terrors, with the care of the house, and the boarder or two they took ‘for company,’ she so ploughed and harrowed that long fallow field of Emma’s mind that at last it began to show signs of fruitfulness.
Arthur went away leaving a stout, dull woman who clung to him as if he was a necessary vehicle or beast of burden — and thought scarcely more of his constant service.
He returned younger, stronger, thinner, an alert vigorous man, with a mind enlarged, refreshed, and stimulated. He had found himself.
And he found her, also, most agreeably changed; having developed not merely tentacles, but feet of her own to stand on.
When next the thirst for travel seized him she thought she’d go too, and proved unexpectedly pleasant as a companion.
But neither of them could ever wring from Dr Bascom any definite diagnosis of Mr Peebles’ threatening disease. ‘A dangerous enlargement of the heart’ was all she would commit herself to, and when he denied any such trouble now, she gravely wagged her head and said ‘it had responded to treatment.’
MRS MERRILL’S DUTIES
GRACE LEROY, in college, was quite the most important member of the class. She had what her professors proudly pointed out as the rarest thing among women — a scientific mind. The arts had no charms for her; she had no wish to teach, no leaning toward that branch of investigation and alleviation in social pathology we are so apt to call ‘social service.’
Her strength was in genuine research work, and, back of that, greatest gift of all, she showed high promise in ‘the scientific imagination,’ the creative synthesizing ability which gives new discoveries to the world.
In addition to these natural advantages a merciful misfortune saved her from the widespread silvery quicksand which so often engulfs the girl graduate. Instead of going home to decorate the drawing-room and help her mother receive, she was obliged to go to work at once, owing to paternal business difficulties.
Her special teacher, old Dr Welsch, succeeded in getting a laboratory position for her; and for three years she worked side by side with a great chemist and physicist, Dr Hammerton, his most valued assistant.
She was very happy.
Happy, of course, to be useful to her family at once, instead of an added burden. Happy in her sense of independence and a real place in the world; happy in the feeling of personal power and legitimate pride of achievement. Happiest of all in the brightening dawn of great ideas, big glittering hopes of a discovery that should lighten humanity’s burdens. Hardly did she dare to hope for it, yet it did seem almost possible at times. Being of a truly religious nature she prayed earnestly over this; to be good enough to deserve the honor; to keep humble and not overestimate her powers; to be helped to do the Great Work.
Then Life rolled swiftly along and swept her off her feet.
Her father recovered his money and her mother lost her health. For a time there seemed absolute need of her at home.
‘I must not neglect plain duty,’ said the girl, and resigned her position.
There was a year of managing the household, with the care of younger brothers and sisters; a year of travel with the frail mother, drifting slowly from place to place, from physician to physician, always hoping, and always being disappointed.
Then came the grief of losing her, after they had grown so close, so deeply, tenderly intimate.
‘Whatever happens,’ said Grace to herself, ‘I shall always be glad of these two years. No outside work could justify me in neglecting this primal duty.’
What did happen next was her father’s turning to her for comfort. She alone could in any degree take her mother’s place to him. He could not bear to think of her as leaving the guidance of the family. His dependence was touching.
Grace accepted the new duty bravely.
There was the year of deep mourning, both in symbolic garments and observances and in the real sorrow; and she found herself learning to know her father better than she ever had, and learning how to somewhat make up to him for the companionship he had lost. There was the need of mothering the younger ones, of managing the big house.
Then came the next sister’s debut, and the cares and responsibilities involved. Another sister was growing up, and the young brother called for sympathetic guidance. There seemed no end to it.
She bowed her head and faced her duty.
‘Nothing can be right,’ she said, ‘which would take me away from these intimate claims.’
Everyone agreed with her in this.
Her father was understanding and tender in his thoughtfulness.
‘I know what a sacrifice you are making, daughter, in giving up your chemistry, but what could I do without you!...’You are so much like your mother...’
As time passed she did speak once or twice of a housekeeper, that she might have some free hours during the day-time, but he was so hurt at the idea that she gave it up.
Then something happened that proved with absurd ease the fallacy of the fond conclusion that nothing could be right which would take her away. Hugh Merrill took her away, and that was accepted by everyone as perfectly right.
She had known him a long time, but had hardly dared let herself think of marrying him — she was so indispensable at home. But when his patience and his ardor combined finally swept her off her feet; when her father said: ‘Why, of course, my child! Hugh is a splendid fellow! We shall miss you — but do you think I would stand in the way of your happiness!’ — she consented. She raised objections about the housekeeping, but her father promptly met them by installing a widowed sister, Aunt Adelaide, who had always been a favorite with them all.
She managed the home quite as well, and the children really better, than had Grace; and she and her brother played cribbage and backgammon in the evenings with pleasant reversion to their youthful comradeship — he seemed to grow younger for having her there.
Grace was so happy, so relieved by the sudden change from being the mainstay of four other people and a big house to being considered and cared for in every way by a strong resourceful affectionate man, that she did not philosophize at all at the easy dispensibility of the indispensable.
With Hugh she rested; regained her youth, bloomed like a flower. There was a long delightful journey; a pleasant homecoming; the setting up of her very own establishment; the cordial welcome from her many friends.
In all this she never lost sight of her inner hope of the Great Work.
Hugh had profound faith in her. They talked of it on their long honeymoon, in full accord. She should have her laboratory, she should work away at her leisure, she would do wonderful things — he was sure of it.
But that first year was so full of other things, so crowded with invitations, so crowded with careful consideration of clothes and menus and servants, the duties of a hostess, or a guest — that the big room upstairs was not yet a laboratory.
An unexpected illness with its convalescence took another long period; she needed rest, a change. Another year went by.
Grace was about thirty now.
Then the babies came — little Hugh and Arnold — splendid boys. A happier, prouder mother one would not wish to see. She thanked God with all her heart; she felt the deep and tender oneness with her husband that comes of parentage, with reverent joy.
To the task of education she now devoted her warmly loving heart, her clear strong mind. It was noble work. She neglected nothing. This duty was imperative. No low-grade nursemaid should, through ignorance, do some irremediable injury to opening baby minds.
With the help of a fully competent assistant, expensive, but worth all she cost, Mrs Merrill brought up those boys herself, and the result should have satisfied even the most exacting educator. Hearty, well-grown, unaffected, with clear minds and beautiful manners, they grew up to sturdy boyhood, taking high places when they went to school; loved by their teachers, comrades and friends, and everyone said: ‘What a lovely mother she is!’
She did n
ot admit to anyone that even in this period of lovely mothering, even with the home happiness, the wife happiness, the pleasant social position, there was still an aching want inside. She wanted her laboratory, her research, her work. All her years of education, from the first chemistry lessons at fourteen to the giving up of her position at twenty-four, had made her a chemist, and nature had made her a discoverer.
She had not read much during these years; it hurt her — made her feel an exile. She had shut the door on all that side of her life, and patiently, gladly fulfilled the duties of the other side, neglecting nothing.
Not till ten more years had passed did she draw a long breath and say: ‘Now I will have my laboratory!’
She had it. There was the big room, all this time a nursery; now at last fitted up with all the mysterious implements and supplies of her chosen profession.
The boys were at school — her husband at his business — now she could concentrate on the Great Work.
And then Mrs Merrill began to realize ‘the defects of her qualities.’
There is such a thing as being too good.
We all know that little one-handed tool combination which carries in its inside screw-driver, gouge and chisel, awl and file — a marvellously handy thing to have in the house. Yes — but did you ever see a carpenter use one? The real workman, for real work, must have real tools, of which the value is, not that they will all fit one hollow and feeble handle, but that each will do what it is meant for, well.
We have seen in Grace Leroy Merrill the strength of mind and character, Christian submission, filial duty, wifely love, motherly efficiency. She had other qualities also, all pleasant ones. She was a pre-eminently attractive woman, more than pretty — charming. She was sweet and cordial in manner, quick and witty, a pleasure to talk with for either man or woman. Add to these the possession of special talent for dress, and a gentle friendliness that could not bear to hurt anyone, and we begin to feel ‘this is too much. No person has a right to be so faultless, so universally efficient and attractive.’
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 165
