Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  She did it well, beginning with rather coarse and simple weaves; and gradually learning the finer grades of work. Despising as she did the more modern woolens, she bought real wool yarn of a lovely red — and made some light warm flannelly stuff in which she proceeded to rapturously enclose her little grandchildren.

  Mr. Bankside warmly approved, murmuring affectionately, “‘She seeketh wool and flax — she worketh willingly with her hands.’”

  He watched little Bob and Polly strenuously “helping” the furnace man to clear the sidewalk, hopping about like red-birds in their new caps and coats; and his face beamed with the appositeness of his quotation, as he remarked, “She is not afraid of the snow for her household, for all her household are clothed with scarlet!” and he proffered an extra, wholly spontaneous kiss, which pleased her mightily.

  “You dear man!” she said with a hug; “I believe you’d rather find a proverb to fit than a gold mine!”

  To which he triumphantly responded: “‘Wisdom is better than rubies; and all the things that may be desired are not to be compared to it.’”

  She laughed sweetly at him. “And do you think wisdom stopped with that string of proverbs?”

  “You can’t get much beyond it,” he answered calmly. “If we lived up to all there is in that list we shouldn’t be far out, my dear!”

  Whereat she laughed again smoothed his gray mane, and kissed him in the back of his neck. “You dear thing!” said Mrs. Bankside.

  She kept herself busy with the new plaything as he called it. Hands that had been rather empty were now smoothly full. Her health was better, and any hint of occasional querulousness disappeared entirely; so that her husband was moved to fresh admiration of her sunny temper, and quoted for the hundredth time, “‘She openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness.’”

  Mrs. MacAvelly taught her to make towels. But Mrs. Bankside’s skill outstripped hers; she showed inventive genius and designed patterns of her own. The fineness and quality of the work increased; and she joyfully replenished her linen chest with her own handiwork.

  “I tell you, my dear,” said Mrs. MacAvelly, “if you’d be willing to sell them you could get almost any price for those towels. With the initials woven in. I know I could get you orders — through the Woman’s Exchange, you know!”

  Mrs. Bankside was delighted. “What fun!” she said. “And I needn’t appear at all?”

  “No, you needn’t appear at all — do let me try.”

  So Mrs. Bankside made towels of price, soft, fine, and splendid, till she was weary of them; and in the opulence of constructive genius fell to devising woven belts of elaborate design.

  These were admired excessively. All her women friends wanted one, or more; the Exchange got hold of it, there was a distinct demand; and finally Mrs. MacAvelly came in one day with a very important air and a special order.

  “I don’t know what you’ll think, my dear,” she said, “but I happen to know the Percy’s very well — the big store people, you know; and Mr. Percy was talking about those belts of yours to me; — of course he didn’t know they are yours; but he said (the Exchange people told him I knew, you see) he said, ‘If you can place an order with that woman, I can take all she’ll make and pay her full price for them. Is she poor?’ he asked. ‘Is she dependent on her work?’ And I told him, ‘Not altogether.’ And I think he thinks it an interesting case! Anyhow, there’s the order. Will you do it?’

  Mrs. Bankside was much excited. She wanted to very much, but dreaded offending her husband. So far she had not told him of her quiet trade in towels; but hid and saved this precious money — the first she had ever earned.

  The two friends discussed the pros and cons at considerable length; and finally with some perturbation, she decided to accept the order.

  “You’ll never tell, Benigna!” she urged. “Solomon would never forgive me, I’m afraid.”

  “Why of course I won’t — you needn’t have a moment’s fear of it. You give them to me — I’ll stop with the carriage you see; and I take them to the Exchange — and he gets them from there.”

  “It seems like smuggling!” said Mrs. Bankside delightedly. “I always did love to smuggle!”

  “They say women have no conscience about laws, don’t they?” Mrs. MacAvelly suggested.

  “Why should we?” answered her friend. “We don’t make ’em — nor God — nor nature. Why on earth should we respect a set of silly rules made by some men one day and changed by some more the next?”

  “Bless us, Polly! Do you talk to Mr. Bankside like that?”

  “Indeed I don’t!” answered her hostess, holding out a particularly beautiful star-patterned belt to show to advantage. “There are lots of things I don’t say to Mr. Bankside— ‘A man of understanding holdeth his peace’ you know — or a woman.”

  She was a pretty creature, her hair like that of a powdered marchioness, her rosy checks and firm slight figure suggesting a charmer in Dresden china.

  Mrs. MacAvelly regarded her admiringly. “‘Where there is no wood the fire goeth out; so where there is no tale bearer the strife ceaseth,’” she proudly offered, “I can quote that much myself.”

  But Mrs. Bankside had many misgivings as she pursued her audacious way; the busy hours flying away from her, and the always astonishing checks flying toward her in gratifying accumulation. She came down to her well-planned dinners gracious and sweet; always effectively dressed; spent the cosy quiet evenings with her husband, or went out with him, with a manner of such increased tenderness and charm that his heart warmed anew to the wife of his youth; and he even relented a little toward her miscellaneous ancestors.

  As the days shortened and darkened she sparkled more and more; with little snatches of song now and then; gay ineffectual strumming on the big piano; sudden affectionate darts at him, with quaintly distributed caresses.

  “Molly!” said he, “I don’t believe you’re a day over twenty! What makes you act so?”

  “Don’t you like it, So?” she asked him. That was the nearest she ever would approximate to his name.

  He did like it, naturally, and even gave her an extra ten dollars to buy Christmas presents with; while he meditated giving her an electric runabout; — to her! — who was afraid of a wheelbarrow!

  When the day arrived and the family were gathered together, Mrs. Bankside, wearing the diamond brooch, the gold bracelet, the point lace handkerchief — everything she could carry of his accumulated generosity — and such an air of triumphant mystery that the tree itself was dim beside her; handed out to her astonished relatives such an assortment of desirable articles that they found no words to express their gratitude.

  “Why, Mother!” said Jessie, whose husband was a minister and salaried as such, “Why, Mother — how did you know we wanted just that kind of a rug! — and a sewing-machine too! And this lovely suit — and — and — why Mother!”

  But her son-in-law took her aside and kissed her solemnly. He had wanted that particular set of sociological books for years — and never hoped to get them; or that bunch of magazines either.

  Nellie had “married rich;” she was less ostentatiously favored; but she had shown her thankfulness a week ago — when her mother had handed her a check.

  “Sh, sh! my dear!” her mother had said, “Not one word. I know! What pleasant weather we’re having.”

  This son-in-law was agreeably surprised, too; and the other relatives, married and single; while the children rioted among their tools and toys, taking this Christmas like any other, as a season of unmitigated joy.

  Mr. Solomon Bankside looked on with growing amazement, making computations in his practiced mind; saying nothing whatever. Should he criticize his wife before others?

  But when his turn came — when gifts upon gifts were offered to him — sets of silken handkerchiefs (he couldn’t bear the touch of a silk handkerchief!), a cabinet of cards and chips and counters of all sorts (he never played cards), an inlaid che
ss-table and ivory men (the game was unknown to him), a gorgeous scarf-pin (he abominated jewelery), a five pound box of candy (he never ate it), his feelings so mounted within him, that since he would not express, and could not repress them, he summarily went up stairs to his room.

  She found him there later, coming in blushing, smiling, crying a little too — like a naughty but charming child.

  He swallowed hard as he looked at her; and his voice was a little strained.

  “I can take a joke as well as any man, Molly. I guess we’re square on that. But — my dear! — where did you get it?”

  “Earned it,” said she, looking down, and fingering her lace handkerchief.

  “Earned it! My wife, earning money! How — if I may ask?”

  “By my weaving, dear — the towels and the belts — I sold ‘em. Don’t be angry — nobody knows — my name didn’t appear at all! Please don’t be angry! — It isn’t wicked, and it was such fun!”

  “No — it’s not wicked, I suppose,” said he rather grimly. “But it is certainly a most mortifying and painful thing to me — most unprecedented.”

  “Not so unprecedented, Dear,” she urged, “Even the woman you think most of did it! Don’t you remember ‘She maketh fine linen and selleth it — and delivereth girdles unto the merchants!’”

  Mr. Bankside came down handsomely.

  He got used to it after a while, and then he became proud of it. If a friend ventured to suggest a criticism, or to sympathize, he would calmly respond, “‘The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil. Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates.’”

  THREE THANKSGIVINGS

  Andrew’s letter and Jean’s letter were in Mrs. Morrison’s lap. She had read them both, and sat looking at them with a varying sort of smile, now motherly and now unmotherly.

  “You belong with me,” Andrew wrote. “It is not right that Jean’s husband should support my mother. I can do it easily now. You shall have a good room and every comfort. The old house will let for enough to give you quite a little income of your own, or it can be sold and I will invest the money where you’ll get a deal more out of it. It is not right that you should live alone there. Sally is old and liable to accident. I am anxious about you. Come on for Thanksgiving — and come to stay. Here is the money to come with. You know I want you. Annie joins me in sending love. ANDREW.”

  Mrs. Morrison read it all through again, and laid it down with her quiet, twinkling smile. Then she read Jean’s.

  “Now, mother, you’ve got to come to us for Thanksgiving this year. Just think! You haven’t seen baby since he was three months old! And have never seen the twins. You won’t know him — he’s such a splendid big boy now. Joe says for you to come, of course. And, mother, why won’t you come and live with us? Joe wants you, too. There’s the little room upstairs; it’s not very big, but we can put in a Franklin stove for you and make you pretty comfortable. Joe says he should think you ought to sell that white elephant of a place. He says he could put the money into his store and pay you good interest. I wish you would, mother. We’d just love to have you here. You’d be such a comfort to me, and such a help with the babies. And Joe just loves you. Do come now, and stay with us. Here is the money for the trip. — Your affectionate daughter, JEANNIE.”

  Mrs. Morrison laid this beside the other, folded both, and placed them in their respective envelopes, then in their several well-filled pigeon-holes in her big, old-fashioned desk. She turned and paced slowly up and down the long parlor, a tall woman, commanding of aspect, yet of a winningly attractive manner, erect and light-footed, still imposingly handsome.

  It was now November, the last lingering boarder was long since gone, and a quiet winter lay before her. She was alone, but for Sally; and she smiled at Andrew’s cautious expression, “liable to accident.” He could not say “feeble” or “ailing,” Sally being a colored lady of changeless aspect and incessant activity.

  Mrs. Morrison was alone, and while living in the Welcome House she was never unhappy. Her father had built it, she was born there, she grew up playing on the broad green lawns in front, and in the acre of garden behind. It was the finest house in the village, and she then thought it the finest in the world.

  Even after living with her father at Washington and abroad, after visiting hall, castle and palace, she still found the Welcome House beautiful and impressive.

  If she kept on taking boarders she could live the year through, and pay interest, but not principal, on her little mortgage. This had been the one possible and necessary thing while the children were there, though it was a business she hated.

  But her youthful experience in diplomatic circles, and the years of practical management in church affairs, enabled her to bear it with patience and success. The boarders often confided to one another, as they chatted and tatted on the long piazza, that Mrs. Morrison was “certainly very refined.”

  Now Sally whisked in cheerfully, announcing supper, and Mrs. Morrison went out to her great silver tea-tray at the lit end of the long, dark mahogany table, with as much dignity as if twenty titled guests were before her.

  Afterward Mr. Butts called. He came early in the evening, with his usual air of determination and a somewhat unusual spruceness. Mr. Peter Butts was a florid, blonde person, a little stout, a little pompous, sturdy and immovable in the attitude of a self-made man. He had been a poor boy when she was a rich girl; and it gratified him much to realize — and to call upon her to realize — that their positions had changed. He meant no unkindness, his pride was honest and unveiled. Tact he had none.

  She had refused Mr. Butts, almost with laughter, when he proposed to her in her gay girlhood. She had refused him, more gently, when he proposed to her in her early widowhood. He had always been her friend, and her husband’s friend, a solid member of the church, and had taken the small mortgage of the house. She refused to allow him at first, but he was convincingly frank about it.

  “This has nothing to do with my wanting you, Delia Morrison,” he said. “I’ve always wanted you — and I’ve always wanted this house, too. You won’t sell, but you’ve got to mortgage. By and by you can’t pay up, and I’ll get it — see? Then maybe you’ll take me — to keep the house. Don’t be a fool, Delia. It’s a perfectly good investment.”

  She had taken the loan. She had paid the interest. She would pay the interest if she had to take boarders all her life. And she would not, at any price, marry Peter Butts.

  He broached the subject again that evening, cheerful and undismayed. “You might as well come to it, Delia,” he said. “Then we could live right here just the same. You aren’t so young as you were, to be sure; I’m not, either. But you are as good a housekeeper as ever — better — you’ve had more experience.”

  “You are extremely kind, Mr. Butts,” said the lady, “but I do not wish to marry you.”

  “I know you don’t,” he said. “You’ve made that clear. You don’t, but I do. You’ve had your way and married the minister. He was a good man, but he’s dead. Now you might as well marry me.”

  “I do not wish to marry again, Mr. Butts; neither you nor anyone.”

  “Very proper, very proper, Delia,” he replied. “It wouldn’t look well if you did — at any rate, if you showed it. But why shouldn’t you? The children are gone now — you can’t hold them up against me any more.”

  “Yes, the children are both settled now, and doing nicely,” she admitted.

  “You don’t want to go and live with them — either one of them — do you?” he asked.

  “I should prefer to stay here,” she answered.

  “Exactly! And you can’t! You’d rather live here and be a grandee — but you can’t do it. Keepin’ house for boarders isn’t any better than keepin’ house for me, as I see. You’d much better marry me.”

  “I should prefer to keep the house without you, Mr. Butts.”

  “I know you would. But you
can’t, I tell you. I’d like to know what a woman of your age can do with a house like this — and no money? You can’t live eternally on hens’ eggs and garden truck. That won’t pay the mortgage.”

  Mrs. Morrison looked at him with her cordial smile, calm and non-committal. “Perhaps I can manage it,” she said.

  “That mortgage falls due two years from Thanksgiving, you know.”

  “Yes — I have not forgotten.”

  “Well, then, you might just as well marry me now, and save two years of interest. It’ll be my house, either way — but you’ll be keepin’ it just the same.”

  “It is very kind of you, Mr. Butts. I must decline the offer none the less. I can pay the interest, I am sure. And perhaps — in two years’ time — I can pay the principal. It’s not a large sum.”

  “That depends on how you look at it,” said he. “Two thousand dollars is considerable money for a single woman to raise in two years — and interest.”

  He went away, as cheerful and determined as ever; and Mrs. Morrison saw him go with a keen, light in her fine eyes, a more definite line to that steady, pleasant smile.

  Then she went to spend Thanksgiving with Andrew. He was glad to see her. Annie was glad to see her. They proudly installed her in “her room,” and said she must call it “home” now.

  This affectionately offered home was twelve by fifteen, and eight feet high. It had two windows, one looking at some pale gray clapboards within reach of a broom, the other giving a view of several small fenced yards occupied by cats, clothes and children. There was an ailanthus tree under the window, a lady ailanthus tree. Annie told her how profusely it bloomed. Mrs. Morrison particularly disliked the smell of ailanthus flowers. “It doesn’t bloom in November,” said she to herself. “I can be thankful for that!”

  Andrew’s church was very like the church of his father, and Mrs. Andrew was doing her best to fill the position of minister’s wife — doing it well, too — there was no vacancy for a minister’s mother.