Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  She was well, and began her second year of teaching with a serene spirit.

  In all this time of slow rebuilding Vivian would not have been left comfortless if masculine admiration could have pleased her. The young men at The Cottonwoods, now undistracted by Susie’s gay presence, concentrated much devotion upon Vivian, as did also the youths across the way. She turned from them all, gently, but with absolute decision.

  Among her most faithful devotees was young Percy Watson, who loved her almost as much as he loved Dr. Hale, and could never understand, in his guileless, boyish heart, why neither of them would talk about the other.

  They did not forbid his talking, however, and the earnest youth, sitting in the quiet parlor at The Cottonwoods, would free his heart to Vivian about how the doctor worked too hard — sat up all hours to study — didn’t give himself any rest — nor any fun.

  “He’ll break down some time — I tell him so. It’s not natural for any man to work that way, and I don’t see any real need of it. He says he’s working on a book — some big medical book, I suppose; but what’s the hurry? I wish you’d have him over here oftener, and make him amuse himself a little, Miss Vivian.”

  “Dr. Hale is quite welcome to come at any time — he knows that,” said she.

  Again the candid Percy, sitting on the doctor’s shadowy piazza, poured out his devoted admiration for her to his silent host.

  “She’s the finest woman I ever knew!” the boy would say. “She’s so beautiful and so clever, and so pleasant to everybody. She’s square — like a man. And she’s kind — like a woman, only kinder; a sort of motherliness about her. I don’t see how she ever lived so long without being married. I’d marry her in a minute if I was good enough — and if she’d have me.”

  Dr. Hale tousled the ears of Balzac, the big, brown dog whose head was so often on his knee, and said nothing. He had not seen the girl since that night by the arbor.

  Later in the season he learned, perforce, to know her better, and to admire her more.

  Susie’s baby came with the new year, and brought danger and anxiety. They hardly hoped to save the life of the child. The little mother was long unable to leave her bed. Since her aunt was not there, but gone, as Mrs. Dykeman, on an extended tour— “part business and part honeymoon,” her husband told her — and since Mrs. Pettigrew now ruled alone at The Cottonwoods, with every evidence of ability and enjoyment, Vivian promptly installed herself in the Saunders home, as general housekeeper and nurse.

  She was glad then of her strength, and used it royally, comforting the wretched Jim, keeping up Susie’s spirits, and mothering the frail tiny baby with exquisite devotion.

  Day after day the doctor saw her, sweet and strong and patient, leaving her school to the assistant, regardless of losses, showing the virtues he admired most in women.

  He made his calls as short as possible; but even so, Vivian could not but note how his sternness gave way to brusque good cheer for the sick mother, and to a lovely gentleness with the child.

  When that siege was over and the girl returned to her own work, she carried pleasant pictures in her mind, and began to wonder, as had so many others, why this man, who seemed so fitted to enjoy a family, had none.

  She missed his daily call, and wondered further why he avoided them more assiduously than at first.

  CHAPTER XII.

  ACHIEVEMENTS.

  There are some folk born to beauty,

  And some to plenteous gold,

  Some who are proud of being young,

  Some proud of being old.

  Some who are glad of happy love,

  Enduring, deep and true,

  And some who thoroughly enjoy

  The little things they do.

  Upon all this Grandma Pettigrew cast an observant eye, and meditated sagely thereupon. Coming to a decision, she first took a course of reading in some of Dr. Bellair’s big books, and then developed a series of perplexing symptoms, not of a too poignant or perilous nature, that took her to Dr. Hale’s office frequently.

  “You haven’t repudiated Dr. Bellair, have you?” he asked her.

  “I have never consulted Jane Bellair as a physician,” she replied, “though I esteem her much as a friend.”

  The old lady’s company was always welcome to him; he liked her penetrating eye, her close-lipped, sharp remarks, and appreciated the real kindness of her heart.

  If he had known how closely she was peering into the locked recesses of his own, and how much she saw there, he would perhaps have avoided her as he did Vivian, and if he had known further that this ingenious old lady, pursuing long genealogical discussions with him, had finally unearthed a mutual old-time friend, and had forthwith started a correspondence with that friend, based on this common acquaintance in Carston, he might have left that city.

  The old-time friend, baited by Mrs. Pettigrew’s innocent comment on Dr. Hale’s persistence in single blessedness, poured forth what she knew of the cause with no more embellishment than time is sure to give.

  “I know why he won’t marry,” wrote she. “He had reason good to begin with, but I never dreamed he’d be obstinate enough to keep it up sixteen years. When he was a boy in college here I knew him well — he was a splendid fellow, one of the very finest. But he fell desperately in love with that beautiful Mrs. James — don’t you remember about her? She married a St. Cloud later, and he left her, I think. She was as lovely as a cameo — and as hard and flat. That woman was the saintliest thing that ever breathed. She wouldn’t live with her husband because he had done something wrong; she wouldn’t get a divorce, nor let him, because that was wicked — and she always had a string of boys round her, and talked about the moral influence she had on them.

  “Young Hale worshipped her — simply worshipped her — and she let him. She let them all. She had that much that was god-like about her — she loved incense. You need not ask for particulars. She was far too ‘particular’ for that. But one light-headed chap went and drowned himself — that was all hushed up, of course, but some of us felt pretty sure why. He was a half-brother to Dick Hale, and Dick was awfully fond of him. Then he turned hard and hateful all at once — used to talk horrid about women. He kept straight enough — that’s easy for a mysogynist, and studying medicine didn’t help him any — doctors and ministers know too much about women. So there you are. But I’m astonished to hear he’s never gotten over it; he always was obstinate — it’s his only fault. They say he swore never to marry — if he did, that accounts. Do give my regards if you see him again.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew considered long and deeply over this information, as she slowly produced a jersey striped with Roman vividness. It was noticeable in this new life in Carston that Mrs. Pettigrew’s knitted jackets had grown steadily brighter in hue from month to month. Whereas, in Bainville, purple and brown were the high lights, and black, slate and navy blue the main colors; now her worsteds were as a painter’s palette, and the result not only cheered, but bade fair to inebriate.

  “A pig-headed man,” she said to herself, as her needle prodded steadily in and out; “a pig-headed man, with a pig-headedness of sixteen years’ standing. His hair must ‘a turned gray from the strain of it. And there’s Vivian, biddin’ fair to be an old maid after all. What on earth!” She appeared to have forgotten that marriages are made in heaven, or to disregard that saying. “The Lord helps those that help themselves,” was one of her favorite mottoes. “And much more those that help other people!” she used to add.

  Flitting in and out of Dr. Hale’s at all hours, she noted that he had a fondness for music, with a phenomenal incapacity to produce any. He encouraged his boys to play on any and every instrument the town afforded, and to sing, whether they could or not; and seemed never to weary of their attempts, though far from satisfied with the product.

  “Huh!” said Mrs. Pettigrew.

  Vivian could play, “Well enough to know better,” she said, and seldom touched the piano. She had a deep, full, co
ntralto voice, and a fair degree of training. But she would never make music unless she felt like it — and in this busy life, with so many people about her, she had always refused.

  Grandma meditated.

  She selected an evening when most of the boarders were out at some entertainment, and selfishly begged Vivian to stay at home with her — said she was feeling badly and wanted company. Grandma so seldom wanted anything that Vivian readily acquiesced; in fact, she was quite worried about her, and asked Dr. Bellair if she thought anything was the matter.

  “She has seemed more quiet lately,” said that astute lady, “and I’ve noticed her going in to Dr. Hale’s during office hours. But perhaps it’s only to visit with him.”

  “Are you in any pain, Grandma?” asked the girl, affectionately. “You’re not sick, are you?”

  “O, no — I’m not sick,” said the old lady, stoutly. “I’m just — well, I felt sort of lonesome to-night — perhaps I’m homesick.”

  As she had never shown the faintest sign of any feeling for their deserted home, except caustic criticism and unfavorable comparison, Vivian rather questioned this theory, but she began to think there was something in it when her grandmother, sitting by the window in the spring twilight, began to talk of how this time of year always made her think of her girlhood.

  “Time for the March peepers at home. It’s early here, and no peepers anywhere that I’ve heard. ‘Bout this time we’d be going to evening meeting. Seems as if I could hear that little old organ — and the singing!”

  “Hadn’t I better shut that window,” asked Vivian. “Won’t you get cold?”

  “No, indeed,” said her grandmother, promptly. “I’m plenty warm — I’ve got this little shawl around me. And it’s so soft and pleasant out.”

  It was soft and pleasant, a delicious May-like night in March, full of spring scents and hints of coming flowers. On the dark piazza across the way she could make out a still figure sitting alone, and the thump of Balzac’s heel as he struggled with his intimate enemies told her who it was.

  “Come Ye Disconsolate,” she began to hum, most erroneously. “How does that go, Vivian? I was always fond of it, even if I can’t sing any more’n a peacock.”

  Vivian hummed it and gave the words in a low voice.

  “That’s good!” said the old lady. “I declare, I’m kinder hungry for some of those old hymns. I wish you’d play me some of ‘em, Vivian.”

  So Vivian, glad to please her, woke the yellow keys to softer music than they were accustomed to, and presently her rich, low voice, sure, easy, full of quiet feeling, flowed out on the soft night air.

  Grandma was not long content with the hymns. “I want some of those old-fashioned songs — you used to know a lot of ‘em. Can’t you do that ‘Kerry Dance’ of Molloy’s, and ‘Twickenham Ferry’ — and ‘Lauriger Horatius?’”

  Vivian gave her those, and many another, Scotch ballads, English songs and German Lieder — glad to please her grandmother so easily, and quite unconscious of a dark figure which had crossed the street and come silently to sit on the farthest corner of their piazza.

  Grandma, meanwhile, watched him, and Vivian as well, and then, with the most unsuspected suddenness, took to her bed. Sciatica, she said. An intermittent pain that came upon her so suddenly she couldn’t stand up. She felt much better lying down. And Dr. Hale must attend her unceasingly.

  This unlooked for overthrow of the phenomenally active old lady was a great blow to Mr. Skee; he showed real concern and begged to be allowed to see her.

  “Why not?” said Mrs. Pettigrew. “It’s nothing catching.”

  She lay, high-pillowed, as stiff and well arranged as a Knight Templar on a tombstone, arrayed for the occasion in a most decorative little dressing sack and ribbony night-cap.

  “Why, ma’am,” said Mr. Skee, “it’s highly becomin’ to you to be sick. It leads me to hope it’s nothin’ serious.”

  She regarded him enigmatically. “Is Dr. Hale out there, or Vivian?” she inquired in a low voice.

  “No, ma’am — they ain’t,” he replied, after a glance in the next room.

  Then he bent a penetrating eye upon her. She met it unflinchingly, but as his smile appeared and grew, its limitless widening spread contagion, and her calm front was broken.

  “Elmer Skee,” said she, with sudden fury, “you hold your tongue!”

  “Ma’am!” he replied, “I have said nothin’ — and I don’t intend to. But if the throne of Europe was occupied by you, Mrs. Pettigrew, we would have a better managed world.”

  He proved a most agreeable and steady visitor during this period of confinement, and gave her full accounts of all that went on outside, with occasional irrelevant bursts of merriment which no rebuke from Mrs. Pettigrew seemed wholly to check.

  He regaled her with accounts of his continuous consultations with Mrs. St. Cloud, and the wisdom and good taste with which she invariably advised him.

  “Don’t you admire a Platonic Friendship, Mrs. Pettigrew?”

  “I do not!” said the old lady, sharply. “And what’s more I don’t believe you do.”

  “Well, ma’am,” he answered, swaying backward and forward on the hind legs of his chair, “there are moments when I confess it looks improbable.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew cocked her head on one side and turned a gimlet eye upon him. “Look here, Elmer Skee,” she said suddenly, “how much money have you really got?”

  He brought down his chair on four legs and regarded her for a few moments, his smile widening slowly. “Well, ma’am, if I live through the necessary expenses involved on my present undertaking, I shall have about two thousand a year — if rents are steady.”

  “Which I judge you do not wish to be known?”

  “If there’s one thing more than another I have always admired in you, ma’am, it is the excellence of your judgment. In it I have absolute confidence.”

  Mrs. St. Cloud had some time since summoned Dr. Hale to her side for a severe headache, but he had merely sent word that his time was fully occupied, and recommended Dr. Bellair.

  Now, observing Mrs. Pettigrew’s tactics, the fair invalid resolved to take the bull by the horns and go herself to his office. She found him easily enough. He lifted his eyes as she entered, rose and stood with folded arms regarding her silently. The tall, heavy figure, the full beard, the glasses, confused even her excellent memory. After all it was many years since they had met, and he had been but one of a multitude.

  She was all sweetness and gentle apology for forcing herself upon him, but really she had a little prejudice against women doctors — his reputation was so great — he was so temptingly near — she was in such pain — she had such perfect confidence in him —

  He sat down quietly and listened, watching her from under his bent brows. Her eyes were dropped, her voice very weak and appealing; her words most perfectly chosen.

  “I have told you,” he said at length, “that I never treat women for their petty ailments, if I can avoid it.”

  She shook her head in grieved acceptance, and lifted large eyes for one of those penetrating sympathetic glances so frequently successful.

  “How you must have suffered!” she said.

  “I have,” he replied grimly. “I have suffered a long time from having my eyes opened too suddenly to the brainless cruelty of women, Mrs. James.”

  She looked at him again, searchingly, and gave a little cry. “Dick Hale!” she said.

  “Yes, Dick Hale. Brother to poor little Joe Medway, whose foolish young heart you broke, among others; whose death you are responsible for.”

  She was looking at him with widening wet eyes. “Ah! If you only knew how I, too, have suffered over that!” she said. “I was scarce more than a girl myself, then. I was careless, not heartless. No one knew what pain I was bearing, then. I liked the admiration of those nice boys — I never realized any of them would take it seriously. That has been a heavy shadow on my life, Dr. Hale — the fear that I was the th
oughtless cause of that terrible thing. And you have never forgiven me. I do not wonder.”

  He was looking at her in grim silence again, wishing he had not spoken.

  “So that is why you have never been to The Cottonwoods since I came,” she pursued. “And I am responsible for all your loneliness. O, how dreadful!”

  Again he rose to his feet.

  “No, madam, you mistake. You were responsible for my brother’s death, and for a bitter awakening on my part, but you are in no way responsible for my attitude since. That is wholly due to myself. Allow me again to recommend Dr. Jane Bellair, an excellent physician and even more accessible.”

  He held the door for her, and she went out, not wholly dissatisfied with her visit. She would have been far more displeased could she have followed his thoughts afterward.

  “What a Consummate Ass I have been all my life!” he was meditating. “Because I met this particular type of sex parasite, to deliberately go sour — and forego all chance of happiness. Like a silly girl. A fool girl who says, ‘I will never marry!’ just because of some quarrel * * * But the girl never keeps her word. A man must.”

  The days were long to Vivian now, and dragged a little, for all her industry.

  Mrs. St. Cloud tried to revive their former intimacy, but the girl could not renew it on the same basis. She, too, had sympathized with Mr. Dykeman, and now sympathized somewhat with Mr. Skee. But since that worthy man still volubly discoursed on Platonism, and his fair friend openly agreed in this view, there seemed no real ground for distress.

  Mrs. Pettigrew remained ailing and rather captious. She had a telephone put at her bedside, and ran her household affairs efficiently, with Vivian as lieutenant, and the ever-faithful Jeanne to uphold the honor of the cuisine. Also she could consult her physician, and demanded his presence at all hours.

  He openly ignored Mrs. St. Cloud now, who met his rude treatment with secret, uncomplaining patience.

  Vivian spoke of this. “I do not see why he need be so rude, Grandma. He may hate women, but I don’t see why he should treat her so shamefully.”