THE COLLECTED WORKS OF CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN: Short Stories, Novels, Poems & Essays. Charlotte Perkins Gilman
bungalow? have you got any farther?"
Mrs. Porne flushed. "I'm sorry, Viva. You ought to have given it to someone else. I haven't gone into that workroom for eight solid days. No help, and the baby, you know. And I was always dog-tired."
"That's all right, dear, there's no very great rush. You can get at it now, can't you—with this other Belle to the fore?"
"She's not Belle, bless you—she's 'Miss Bell.' It's her last name."
Mrs. Weatherstone smiled her faint smile. "Well—why not? Like a seamstress, I suppose."
"Exactly." That's what she said. "If this labor was as important as that of seamstress or governess why not the same courtesy—Oh she's a most superior and opinionated young person, I can see that."
"I like her looks," admitted Mrs. Weatherstone, "but can't we look over those plans again; there's something I wanted to suggest." And they went up to the big room on the third floor.
In her shop and at her work Isabel Porne was a different woman. She was eager and yet calm; full of ideas and ideals, yet with a practical knowledge of details that made her houses dear to the souls of women.
She pointed out in the new drawings the practical advantages of kitchen and pantry; the simple but thorough ventilation, the deep closets, till her friend fairly laughed at her. "And you say you're not domestic!"
"I'm a domestic architect, if you like," said Isabel; "but not a domestic servant.—I'll remember what you say about those windows—it's a good idea," and she made a careful note of Mrs. Weatherstone's suggestion.
That lady pushed the plans away from her, and went to the many cushioned lounge in the wide west window, where she sat so long silent that Isabel followed at last and took her hand.
"Did you love him so much?" she asked softly.
"Who?" was the surprising answer.
"Why—Mr. Weatherstone," said Mrs. Porne.
"No—not very much. But he was something."
Isabel was puzzled. "I knew you so well in school," she said, "and that gay year in Paris. You were always a dear, submissive quiet little thing—but not like this. What's happened Viva?"
"Nothing that anybody can help," said her friend. "Nothing that matters. What does matter, anyway? Fuss and fuss and fuss. Dress and entertain. Travel till you're tired, and rest till you're crazy! Then—when a real thing happens—there's all this!" and she lifted her black draperies disdainfully. "And mourning notepaper and cards and servant's livery—and all the things you mustn't do!"
Isabel put an arm around her. "Don't mind, dear—you'll get over this—you are young enough yet—the world is full of things to do!"
But Mrs. Weatherstone only smiled her faint smile again. "I loved another man, first," she said. "A real one. He died. He never cared for me at all. I cared for nothing else—nothing in life. That's why I married Martin Weatherstone—not for his old millions—but he really cared—and I was sorry for him. Now he's dead. And I'm wearing this—and still mourning for the other one."
Isabel held her hand, stroked it softly, laid it against her cheek.
"Oh, I'll feel differently in time, perhaps!" said her visitor.
"Maybe if you took hold of the house—if you ran things yourself,"—ventured Mrs. Porne.
Mrs. Weatherstone laughed. "And turn out the old lady? You don't know her. Why she managed her son till he ran away from her—and after he got so rich and imported her from Philadelphia to rule over Orchardina in general and his household in particular, she managed that poor little first wife of his into her grave, and that wretched boy—he's the only person that manages her! She's utterly spoiled him—that was his father's constant grief. No, no—let her run the house—she thinks she owns it."
"She's fond of you, isn't she?" asked Mrs. Porne.
"O I guess so—if I let her have her own way. And she certainly saves me a great deal of trouble. Speaking of trouble, there they are—she said she'd stop for me."
At the gate puffed the big car, a person in livery rang the bell, and Mrs. Weatherstone kissed her friend warmly, and passed like a heavy shadow along the rose-bordered path. In the tonneau sat a massive old lady in sober silks, with a set impassive countenance, severely correct in every feature, and young Mat Weatherstone, sulky because he had to ride with his grandmother now and then. He was not a nice young man.
Diantha found it hard to write her home letters, especially to Ross. She could not tell them of all she meant to do; and she must tell them of this part of it, at once, before they heard of it through others.
To leave home—to leave school-teaching, to leave love—and "go out to service" did not seem a step up, that was certain. But she set her red lips tighter and wrote the letters; wrote them and mailed them that evening, tired though she was.
Three letters came back quickly.
Her mother's answer was affectionate, patient, and trustful, though not understanding.
Her sister's was as unpleasant as she had expected.
"The idea!" wrote Mrs. Susie. "A girl with a good home to live in and another to look forward to—and able to earn money respectably! to go out and work like a common Irish girl! Why Gerald is so mortified he can't face his friends—and I'm as ashamed as I can be! My own sister! You must be crazy—simply crazy!"
It was hard on them. Diantha had faced her own difficulties bravely enough; and sympathized keenly with her mother, and with Ross; but she had not quite visualized the mortification of her relatives. She found tears in her eyes over her mother's letter. Her sister's made her both sorry and angry—a most disagreeable feeling—as when you step on the cat on the stairs. Ross's letter she held some time without opening.
She was in her little upstairs room in the evening. She had swept, scoured, scalded and carbolized it, and the hospitally smell was now giving way to the soft richness of the outer air. The "hoo! hoo!" of the little mourning owl came to her ears through the whispering night, and large moths beat noiselessly against the window screen. She kissed the letter again, held it tightly to her heart for a moment, and opened it.
"Dearest: I have your letter with its—somewhat surprising—news. It is a comfort to know where you are, that you are settled and in no danger.
"I can readily imagine that this is but the preliminary to something else, as you say so repeatedly; and I can understand also that you are too wise to tell me all you mean to be beforehand.
"I will be perfectly frank with you, Dear.
"In the first place I love you. I shall love you always, whatever you do. But I will not disguise from you that this whole business seems to me unutterably foolish and wrong.
"I suppose you expect by some mysterious process to "develope" and "elevate" this housework business; and to make money. I should not love you any better if you made a million—and I would not take money from you—you know that, I hope. If in the years we must wait before we can marry, you are happier away from me—working in strange kitchens—or offices—that is your affair.
"I shall not argue nor plead with you, Dear Girl; I know you think you are doing right; and I have no right, nor power, to prevent you. But if my wish were right and power, you would be here to-night, under the shadow of the acacia boughs—in my arms!
"Any time you feel like coming back you will be welcome, Dear.
"Yours, Ross."
"Any time she felt like coming back?
Diantha slipped down in a little heap by the bed, her face on the letter—her arms spread wide. The letter grew wetter and wetter, and her shoulders shook from time to time.
But the hands were tight-clenched, and if you had been near enough you might have