Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  “Thank you,” he responded with careful courtesy. “I will go and smoke in the library if you’ll excuse me.”

  Left alone she stood white and silent, made a swift movement to follow him, but drew back.

  “It is too late!” she cried bitterly, under her breath, walking about in her agitation. Then stopping short again. “Perhaps even yet — if I try —— —— — There are the children to hold him.” She knew in her heart that if she could not, neither could they. “And the home,” she thought, clutching at straws in her distress. She looked around the pretty room and perceived what Alicia had done. This touched the springs of rage. “Not yet! It is my home yet!” she breathed through tight-set teeth, and fell to rearranging everything as it had been before, with swift sure touches. When all was to her mind she stood looking about at it with gathering tears. “My home! My home!” she murmured to herself.

  A light tap at the door broke upon her hopelessness. It was Mrs. MacAvelly who bustled in affectionately.

  “I’ve brought you my menthol pencil,” she said. “It was a shame for you to lose all that splendid music.”

  “It was a shame for you to — why didn’t you stay as I told you?”

  “Of course I wouldn’t let you come home alone. The idea!” She sat down by her, and saw the keen distress in her face. “Why, Stella, dear child, what is the matter?” She gathered her into her motherly arms. “Can’t you tell me about it?”

  “It is nothing but what you know. What everybody sees now, I suppose.”

  “Sees what, my dear?”

  Stella dried her eyes and straightened herself with an attempt at calmness. “I might as well face it,” she said slowly. “And I’d just as soon say it right out — to you. We’ve talked before.... Why, it’s simple enough — happens often, I’m told. My husband loves another woman.”

  “Oh no, Stella — he doesn’t — I’m sure he doesn’t!”

  “If you don’t mind I will tell you about it. You have been so kind to me this winter, Mrs. MacAvelly. You are a wise woman.”

  “I wish I was, my dear,” said her friend simply.

  Stella sat brooding a moment.

  “It’s a very simple case,” she said presently. “I had the best husband in the world — and I wore him out and threw him away.”

  “Absurd, my dear! You have a good husband now, and he loves you — I’m sure he does. You don’t feel well tonight, dear — you exaggerate.”

  “I exaggerate nothing. You see I know now how I used to torment him. I can see now what a lazy, idle, selfish, morbid, empty-minded, irritating little beast I was!”

  “Nonsense, Stella. You never were anything of the kind!”

  “Oh yes, I was!” She forgot the keen grief of the moment in retroactive self-reproach. “I had nothing to do, you see. Nothing to think about but my own emotions. No life, no real life. And I just drew on him for everything.”

  Mrs. MacAvelly patted her hand comfortingly and held it in her own strong warm ones. “If it does you good to blame yourself, my dear child, go ahead.”

  “I will. I’m trying to see the whole thing clearly, and then decide what to do. You see I love him very much — always did — and I used to think of nothing else but him, practically.”

  “Very proper, my dear. Any man should be glad of that.”

  “Very improper! Any man gets sick and tired of it. And he was so good to me — so patient.” She buried her face in her hands.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, child.”

  “I can’t be,” said Stella determinedly. “I deserve all I’m getting. The long and short of it is that I wore out his patience and his love.... No wonder!... Alicia is beautiful and womanly — she is right here all the time.... I do not blame him a bit.... I do not blame Alicia — much. She isn’t at all a ‘designing woman,’ but she’s lonely herself, you see — and was always fond of Morgan — and then when he got no rest at home—” She smiled bitterly. “Why, it is the most natural thing in the world!”

  Her friend shook her head with conviction. “You’re wrong, Stella, utterly wrong. He’s fond of his cousin, naturally, and I dare say has found some amusement and perhaps relief with her, but he loves you — I know it.”

  Again Stella smiled that hard little smile. She rose, moved about restlessly, turned over the papers on the desk.

  “The pity of it was,” she said, coming back slowly, “that things were getting so different. You see I have really waked up at last, and got hold of life. I’ve got something to do now, something to think of besides Morgan.”

  “You don’t mean that you think less of him?”

  “Less! More than I ever did, having more intelligence. I’ve got a kind of — perspective on him. You see a man can’t bear to have a woman yearning and longing after him all the time. He wants — well, he wants to want her!”

  Mrs. MacAvelly smiled appreciatively, and agreed with her: “I think you are right about that.”

  “Then you see I was just finding myself, just learning how to be more self-contained and desirable. A little more time and I think I could have won him back....”

  “But, Stella, surely it’s not too late. I have been noticing a good deal all this time; I’m sure that is exactly what has happened. He thinks more of you than he ever did.”

  “No — it’s too late. You don’t know! But there’s one thing—”

  Stella was quite fiercely determined now. “I can set him free if he wants it. You see I can earn my own living now.”

  She looked so young, not girlish, but rather boyish, in this high-minded boast that the older woman had almost a mind to laugh, but did not.

  “Aren’t you forgetting the boys?” she urged gently.

  “No, I’m not forgetting the boys. But I was thinking more of him. A man’s life is not finished so early as a woman’s. Alicia is younger than I am.... But if he does not wish to change — if he prefers me to stay here, to go on as we are — I can bear even that, I suppose — now that I have my work to do.”

  “Do you mean—” the older woman was studying her earnestly, “that in all this bitter trouble you find the work a compensation?”

  Stella nodded gravely. “You can call it a compensation, or a counterirritant, or what you please; it is an escape from pain, and a source of power. If I hadn’t that —— — —” She stretched out her arms with a gesture of desolation. Then with sudden intensity: “It’s no wonder a man gets tired of a woman who is nothing but a woman — and always womaning! Suppose a man was fussing about all day and all night wondering if his wife had ‘ceased to love him’! She soon would!”

  “Then you do not believe that women need more love than they get?”

  “They think they do! They don’t know love when they see it, that’s all. They think they’re perishing with loneliness when really it’s just laziness that ails them.... Oh, if I’d only learned it in time.”

  Both were a little surprised to hear the bell, the voice of a stranger, slow, drawling, affected. Hedda brought in a name: “Mrs. A. Freyling-Huysen. She says she knows it’s late, but begs to see you for a moment, ma’am — says she’s forgotten her cards.”

  A woman followed her in — a showily attired woman, redolent of the latest fashion and the most delicate scent, with an air of overamiable apology, a large-figured veil pinned snugly about her face, and a lorgnette.

  “Shockingly late to call, I know! Hope you’ll excuse the informality, but I simply had to see you about that dinner tomorrow before it was too late.”

  Stella rose coldly, studying the stranger. “I am very sorry,” she said. “There is some mistake. I know nothing of any dinner tomorrow — and I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

  Then the imposing stranger threw herself into a chair and laughed triumphantly.

  “Stung again! Oh, Stella, don’t be mad! I know you don’t want to see me, but every once in a while I just have to see you.”

  Mrs. MacAvelly rose with her pleasant negative
smile. “I’ll run home, Mrs. Widfield. I’ve stayed too late, I know. You must be tired — and with that headache, too!”

  Stella tried to detain her. “Don’t go, I beg of you. Miss Peckham will not be long, I am sure.”

  If Miss Peckham had possessed any natural sensitiveness, or had not entirely lost what she possessed, in her professional experiences, she would have been very short indeed — would have needed no further hint. As it was, she merely leaned back smiling with an air of “Je suis; je reste,” and Mrs. MacAvelly went away. Stella followed her to the door.

  “What shall I do with that woman? I’ve told her again and again not to come here — and she’s always getting in on some ridiculous pretext — like this.”

  “Suppose you remain standing?”

  “That would not trouble her at all. I doubt if she would notice it.”

  “Suppose you excused yourself and went to your room?”

  “She’d come too. It will take a policeman to get Malina out. Oh dear!”

  Returning, she stood looking at her undesired visitor, who smiled back at her serenely.

  “After what you put in the paper about me the last time, Malina Peckham, I wonder you dare come here again.”

  “That’s one thing I came for. I knew you’d be mad — and I don’t wonder, but I got my raise on that thing. It was a real help to me. And it hasn’t done you any harm, Stella — not really. Come — you have so much — and I have so little. Don’t you think it’s unethical to object to being of service?”

  “It is a very disagreeable way to help one’s friends, I must say,” said her reluctant hostess. “Have you another such benefaction to propose for your further advancement?”

  “Now it’s no use trying to freeze me out, Stella. You don’t do it well; you’re too kind by nature, and too much of a lady. Besides I haven’t come on my own interest this time — but to do you a service, really. I want to protect you — I do, honestly. I don’t think you realize how people are beginning to talk.”

  “Let them,” said her unwilling friend. “I can’t help people talking about me if they choose.”

  “Ah, but it’s not about you now — not you only, that is.”

  With every startled nerve held in perfect calmness Stella only replied, “Let them talk about me and whomever they please then.”

  “But it is your husband they are talking about now, you poor dear — and Alicia Cushing.”

  Malina’s keen spying eyes were on her, but they saw no change of expression, no nervous movement.

  “Well—” Stella rejoined meditatively. “I should think they would.”

  Malina sat back with an explosive ejaculation. “Oh, you see at last, do you?”

  “I see Mrs. Cushing often, and so does my husband, of course. He is her cousin, you know. She is a widow, still young and very pretty. I can see how people — some kinds of people — would talk — and of course the newspapers.”

  She fanned herself quietly, looking at Malina with steady eyes. But that person was by no means discouraged. Animadversions upon her chosen profession did not disturb her.

  “And your name being so much before the public now, that helps, of course. You see it makes a good story — everyone wondering why the society woman has plunged into literature. Now they think they know. Say, Stella — if they do write this up it makes a bully story — she being in the same house and all.”

  “So I begin to see.” The fan moved quietly, steadily; her color was unchanged, her eyes cool.

  “And you are still pretending there is nothing in it?”

  “I am still attending strictly to my own affairs, Malina. I wish I could say as much for you.”

  Malina grinned. “It is my business to attend to other people’s affairs. Mostly I don’t mind, but I have a great admiration for you, Stella. You’ve always been kind to me — even when you hated it. And I feel horribly about this. Look here....” She leaned forward, her elbows on her out-slanting knees, hands loosely clasped. “Why don’t you leave him?”

  Now whatever secret purpose of this sort Mrs. Widfield may have entertained, or however she may have heroically suggested it to Mrs. MacAvelly, she had no mind to receive such suggestion from Malina.

  She rose, with finality.

  “Will you have the kindness to go away, Miss Peckham? If I distinctly tell you that I never wish to see you again, if I distinctly ask you to leave my house and never come back — never, will you do it?”

  Malina was quite unmoved, emotionally or mechanically. “Oh, I’ll go away — presently. I won’t promise never to come back though. It’s fun, getting in in spite of you. But see here, Stella — I’m in earnest about this. I really want to stave off a flare-up in the papers. I’ve never said one word about this thing, though I’ve felt pretty sure of it for ever so long. You can always be suspicious when there’s another pretty woman around. Men are such brutes, the best of ‘em!”

  Stella turned away conclusively.

  “If you won’t go, I will. Good evening, Miss Peckham.” She rang for the maid, and promptly departed into her own room, locking the door after her.

  Malina flushed darkly and stood irresolute for a moment. But when grim Hedda held the door open, she went out.

  CHAPTER 13

  Morgan sat for some time moodily alone among the packed shelves of his library, smoking, and looking at the books as one looks at a well-kept lawn. He had been reared in the unquestioned conviction that every gentleman must have a library, with various classics, standard authors, and solid works of revered authority, with a certain amount of “light reading.” His library furnished these, and more, with a veiled iridescence of new and individual work gradually added by his wife. He was always pleased to have her buy books, though he might not look at them.

  He was bitterly lonely.

  This new wife of his, so serene and quiet, so brilliant and able in her unexpected development as a writer, had grown dearer even as she grew remote. He missed her. She failed in nothing of her wifely care of him; she was in no way neglectful or unkind, but she was not there, somehow.

  As for Alicia, whose sweet quiet had once been a pleasant contrast to Stella’s too visible demand, he had found too much Alicia like too many bananas, and had lost his liking for the diet.

  What had Stella come home for? Was it a headache? Of course it was; he had never known her to lie. He was sorry for the headache, wanted to go and comfort her — then heard Mrs. MacAvelly come in and voices in continuing murmur.

  Presently he determined to go and finish his cigar in the open air; he would be better for a walk perhaps.

  Colonel Cushing, hat and overcoat on, met him in the hall. “Whither away, my boy? Whither away?”

  “Just going out for a bit of air,” Morgan answered.

  “It’s wet,” the old gentleman demurred. “I came in just now myself. Very chilly — and snowing a bit — unseasonable weather.”

  Morgan stood irresolute. He had forgotten the weather.

  “I was just coming down to see if you were disengaged. Alicia’s gone to bed, I think. I hate being alone.”

  “Come in, come in.” Morgan opened the door for him. Let’s sit in my room. We shall be more out of the way. Unless you’d like to see Stella and Mrs. MacAvelly?”

  “Not just now. I only want to smoke and grumble. You’ve got the best wife in the world, I don’t doubt. I had once, and Mrs. MacAvelly is a very nice woman, very nice indeed. But after all, my boy, do the best they can they can’t help making trouble.”

  Morgan laughed dryly as he gave his guest a comfortable chair. “You are incorrigible, Colonel Cushing. I don’t doubt the amiability of your wife, and anyone can see Alicia’s, yet you continue to carp. It’s pure prejudice.”

  The Colonel looked shrewdly at him, pulling at his cigar, and settling luxuriously back in his chair. “I have the whole world’s opinion back of me. No doubt there are occasional exceptions; we all know of some, but take ’em by and large they’re all alike, m
y boy, they’re all alike. ‘There’s no mischief in the world done, but a woman she is one.’”

  They were silent, Morgan’s gloom but faintly lightened by this familiar tone of condemnation. The older man watched him with real tenderness. He was fond of Morgan, admired his business ability, and had long appreciated his friendly kindness. For some time he had felt that all was not right with the Widfields, and wished that he might be of some service, but there had been no opportunity.

  “Those fellows knew what they were talking about,” he continued. “Popular sayings like those old saws represent a large bulk of public opinion. And what is the opinion? ‘Weal and women cannot pan; woe and women can.’” He chuckled. “They were a bit severe now and then. How’s this? ‘An ugly woman is a disease of the stomach; a handsome woman a disease of the head.’”

  Morgan laughed outright at this, though he had heard it often enough before. “To listen to you one would think that men were angels — and women the opposite,” he commented.

  “Well, it approximates that at times. ‘A man of straw’s worth a woman of gold.’”

  “Nonsense — rank nonsense! I wonder how you can quote the stuff. Just a mass of ancient foolishness.”

  His visitor rather bristled at this.

  “Nothing foolish about it, my boy! Not in the least. Condensed public opinion, that’s what proverbs are. And one of ’em says: ‘Man, woman and the devil are the three degrees of comparison.’”

  “Oh, tut, tut, Colonel! That’s too much. It reminds me of the statue of the hunter and the dead lion — and what the lion said. Wait till they make proverbs about us!”

  “You are mighty generous, Morgan. I like to see you stand up for them. But in your secret heart, my boy — come — I don’t believe you enjoy being called ‘the husband of the clever Mrs. Widfield.’”

  “They say I object to that?” Morgan inquired calmly. “Well, please correct the impression as far as you can. I am extremely proud of the clever Mrs. Widfield, and of being her husband.”

  “Well played!” said the Colonel admiringly. “Well played, indeed! I’d like to see the woman who could do as well. If they have a trouble they confide it to all comers — light-minded babblers!”