THE COLLECTED WORKS OF CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN: Short Stories, Novels, Poems & Essays. Charlotte Perkins Gilman
in the hall; and in truth the old lady meant that she should hear what she said.
"She's right, I'm afraid!" said Diantha to herself—"there will be a scandal if I'm not mighty careful and this household will be responsible for it!"
Even as she spoke she caught Ilda's childish giggle in the lower hall, and looking over the railing saw her airily dusting the big Chinese vases and coquetting with young Mr. Mathew.
Later on, Diantha tried seriously to rouse her conscience and her common sense. "Don't you see, child, that it can't do you anything but harm? You can't carry on with a man like that as you can with one of your own friends. He is not to be trusted. One nice girl I had here simply left the place—he annoyed her so."
Ilda was a little sulky. She had been quite a queen in the small Norwegian village she was born in. Young men were young men—and they might even—perhaps! This severe young housekeeper didn't know everything. Maybe she was jealous!
So Ilda was rather unconvinced, though apparently submissive, and Diantha kept a careful eye upon her. She saw to it that Ilda's room had a bolt as well as key in the door, and kept the room next to it empty; frequently using it herself, unknown to anyone. "I hate to turn the child off," she said to herself, conscientiously revolving the matter. "She isn't doing a thing more than most girls do—she's only a little fool. And he's not doing anything I can complain of—yet."
But she worried over it a good deal, and Mrs. Weatherstone noticed it.
"Doesn't your pet club house go well, 'Miss Bell?' You seem troubled about something."
"I am," Diantha admitted. "I believe I'll have to tell you about it—but I hate to. Perhaps if you'll come and look I shan't have to say much."
She led her to a window that looked on the garden, the rich, vivid, flower-crowded garden of Southern California by the sea. Little Ilda, in a fresh black frock and snowy, frilly cap and apron, ran out to get a rose; and while she sniffed and dallied they saw Mr. Mathew saunter out and join her.
The girl was not as severe with him as she ought to have been—that was evident; but it was also evident that she was frightened and furious when he suddenly held her fast and kissed her with much satisfaction. As soon as her arms were free she gave him a slap that sounded smartly even at that distance; and ran crying into the house.
"She's foolish, I admit," said Diantha,—"but she doesn't realize her danger at all. I've tried to make her. And now I'm more worried than ever. It seems rather hard to discharge her—she needs care."
"I'll speak to that young man myself," said Mrs. Weatherstone. "I'll speak to his grandmother too!"
"O—would you?" urged Diantha. "She wouldn't believe anything except that the girl 'led him on'—you know that. But I have an idea that we could convince her—if you're willing to do something rather melodramatic—and I think we'd better do it to-night!"
"What's that?" asked her employer; and Diantha explained. It was melodramatic, but promised to be extremely convincing.
"Do you think he'd dare! under my roof?" hotly demanded Madam Weatherstone.
"I'm very much afraid it wouldn't be the first time," Diantha reluctantly assured her. "It's no use being horrified. But if we could only make sure—"
"If we could only make his grandmother sure!" cried Madam Weatherstone. "That would save me a deal of trouble and misunderstanding. See here—I think I can manage it—what makes you think it's to-night?"
"I can't be absolutely certain—" Diantha explained; and told her the reasons she had.
"It does look so," her employer admitted. "We'll try it at any rate."
Urging her mother-in-law's presence on the ground of needing her experienced advice, Mrs. Weatherstone brought the august lady to the room next to Ilda's late that evening, the housekeeper in attendance.
"We mustn't wake the servants," she said in an elaborate whisper. "They need sleep, poor things! But I want to consult you about these communicating doors and the locksmith is coming in the morning.—you see this opens from this side." She turned the oiled key softly in the lock. "Now Miss Bell thinks they ought to be left so—so that the girls can visit one another if they like—what do you think?"
"I think you are absurd to bring me to the top floor, at this time of night, for a thing like this!" said the old lady. "They should be permanently locked, to my mind! There's no question about it."
Viva, still in low tones, discussed this point further; introduced the subject of wall-paper or hard finish; pointed out from the window a tall eucalyptus which she thought needed heading; did what she could to keep her mother-in-law on the spot; and presently her efforts were rewarded.
A sound of muffled speech came from the next room—a man's voice dimly heard. Madam Weatherstone raised her head like a warhorse.
"What's this! What's this!" she said in a fierce whisper.
Viva laid a hand on her arm. "Sh!" said she. "Let us make sure!" and she softly unlatched the door.
A brilliant moon flooded the small chamber. They could see little Ilda, huddled in the bedclothes, staring at her door from which the key had fallen. Another key was being inserted—turned—but the bolt held.
"Come and open it, young lady!" said a careful voice outside.
"Go away! Go away!" begged the girl, low and breathlessly. "Oh how can you! Go away quick!"
"Indeed, I won't!" said the voice. "You come and open it."
"Go away," she cried, in a soft but frantic voice. "I—I'll scream!"
"Scream away!" he answered. "I'll just say I came up to see what the screaming's about, that's all. You open the door—if you don't want anybody to know I'm here! I won't hurt you any—I just want to talk to you a minute."
Madam Weatherstone was speechless with horror, her daughter-in-law listened with set lips. Diantha looked from one to the other, and at the frightened child before them who was now close to the terrible door.
"O please!—please! go away!" she cried in desperation. "O what shall I do! What shall I do!"
"You can't do anything," he answered cheerfully. "And I'm coming in anyhow. You'd better keep still about this for your own sake. Stand from under!" Madam Weatherstone marched into the room. Ilda, with a little cry, fled out of it to Diantha.
There was a jump, a scramble, two knuckly hands appeared, a long leg was put through the transom, two legs wildly wriggling, a descending body, and there stood before them, flushed, dishevelled, his coat up to his ears—Mat Weatherstone.
He did not notice the stern rigidity of the figure which stood between him and the moonlight, but clasped it warmly to his heart.—"Now I've got you, Ducky!" cried he, pressing all too affectionate kisses upon the face of his grandmother.
Young Mrs. Weatherstone turned on the light.
It was an embarrassing position for the gentleman.
He had expected to find a helpless cowering girl; afraid to cry out because her case would be lost if she did; begging piteously that he would leave her; wholly at his mercy.
What he did find was so inexplicable as to reduce him to gibbering astonishment. There stood his imposing grandmother, so overwhelmed with amazement that her trenchant sentences failed her completely; his stepmother, wearing an expression that almost suggested delight in his discomfiture; and Diantha, as grim as Rhadamanthus.
Poor little Ilda burst into wild sobs and choking explanations, clinging to Diantha's hand. "If I'd only listened to you!" she said. "You told me he was bad! I never thought he'd do such an awful thing!"
Young Mathew fumbled at the door. He had locked it outside in his efforts with the pass-key. He was red, red to his ears—very red, but there was no escape. He faced them—there was no good in facing the door.