Besides, the work she had done so cheerfully to help her husband was not what she most cared for, after all. She liked the people, she liked to manage, but she was not strong on doctrine. Even her husband had never known how far her views differed from his. Mrs. Morrison had never mentioned what they were.
Andrew’s people were very polite to her. She was invited out with them, waited upon and watched over and set down among the old ladies and gentlemen — she had never realized so keenly that she was no longer young. Here nothing recalled her youth, every careful provision anticipated age. Annie brought her a hot-water bag at night, tucking it in at the foot of the bed with affectionate care. Mrs. Morrison thanked her, and subsequently took it out — airing the bed a little before she got into it. The house seemed very hot to her, after the big, windy halls at home.
The little dining-room, the little round table with the little round fern-dish in the middle, the little turkey and the little carving-set — game-set she would have called it — all made her feel as if she was looking through the wrong end of an opera-glass.
In Annie’s precise efficiency she saw no room for her assistance; no room in the church, no room in the small, busy town, prosperous and progressive, and no room in the house. “Not enough to turn round in!” she said to herself. Annie, who had grown up in a city flat, thought their little parsonage palatial. Mrs. Morrison grew up in the Welcome House.
She stayed a week, pleasant and polite, conversational, interested in all that went on.
“I think your mother is just lovely,” said Annie to Andrew.
“Charming woman, your mother,” said the leading church member.
“What a delightful old lady your mother is!” said the pretty soprano.
And Andrew was deeply hurt and disappointed when she announced her determination to stay on for the present in her old home. “Dear boy,” she said, “you mustn’t take it to heart. I love to be with you, of course, but I love my home, and want to keep it is long as I can. It is a great pleasure to see you and Annie so well settled, and so happy together. I am most truly thankful for you.”
“My home is open to you whenever you wish to come, mother,” said Andrew. But he was a little angry.
Mrs. Morrison came home as eager as a girl, and opened her own door with her own key, in spite of Sally’s haste.
Two years were before her in which she must find some way to keep herself and Sally, and to pay two thousand dollars and the interest to Peter Butts. She considered her assets. There was the house — the white elephant. It was big — very big. It was profusely furnished. Her father had entertained lavishly like the Southern-born, hospitable gentleman he was; and the bedrooms ran in suites — somewhat deteriorated by the use of boarders, but still numerous and habitable. Boarders — she abhorred them. They were people from afar, strangers and interlopers. She went over the place from garret to cellar, from front gate to backyard fence.
The garden had great possibilities. She was fond of gardening. and understood it well. She measured and estimated.
“This garden,” she finally decided, “with the hens, will feed us two women and sell enough to pay Sally. If we make plenty of jelly, it may cover the coal bill, too. As to clothes — I don’t need any. They last admirably. I can manage. I can live — but two thousand dollars — and interest!”
In the great attic was more furniture, discarded sets put there when her extravagant young mother had ordered new ones. And chairs — uncounted chairs. Senator Welcome used to invite numbers to meet his political friends — and they had delivered glowing orations in the wide, double parlors, the impassioned speakers standing on a temporary dais, now in the cellar; and the enthusiastic listeners disposed more or less comfortably on these serried rows of “folding chairs,” which folded sometimes, and let down the visitor in scarlet confusion to the floor.
She sighed as she remembered those vivid days and glittering nights. She used to steal downstairs in her little pink wrapper and listen to the eloquence. It delighted her young soul to see her father rising on his toes, coming down sharply on his heels, hammering one hand upon the other; and then to hear the fusilade of applause.
Here were the chairs, often borrowed for weddings, funerals, and church affairs, somewhat worn and depleted, but still numerous. She mused upon them. Chairs — hundreds of chairs. They would sell for very little.
She went through her linen room. A splendid stock in the old days; always carefully washed by Sally; surviving even the boarders. Plenty of bedding, plenty of towels, plenty of napkins and tablecloths. “It would make a good hotel — but I can’t have it so — I can’t! Besides, there’s no need of another hotel here. The poor little Haskins House is never full.”
The stock in the china closet was more damaged than some other things, naturally; but she inventoried it with care. The countless cups of crowded church receptions were especially prominent. Later additions these, not very costly cups, but numerous, appallingly.
When she had her long list of assets all in order, she sat and studied it with a clear and daring mind. Hotel — boarding-house — she could think of nothing else. School! A girls’ school! A boarding school! There was money to be made at that, and fine work done. It was a brilliant thought at first, and she gave several hours, and much paper and ink, to its full consideration. But she would need some capital for advertising; she must engage teachers — adding to her definite obligation; and to establish it, well, it would require time.
Mr. Butts, obstinate, pertinacious, oppressively affectionate, would give her no time. He meant to force her to marry him for her own good — and his. She shrugged her fine shoulders with a little shiver. Marry Peter Butts! Never! Mrs. Morrison still loved her husband. Some day she meant to see him again — God willing — and she did not wish to have to tell him that at fifty she had been driven into marrying Peter Butts.
Better live with Andrew. Yet when she thought of living with Andrew, she shivered again. Pushing back her sheets of figures and lists of personal property, she rose to her full graceful height and began to walk the floor. There was plenty of floor to walk. She considered, with a set deep thoughtfulness, the town and the townspeople, the surrounding country, the hundreds upon hundreds of women whom she knew — and liked, and who liked her.
It used to be said of Senator Welcome that he had no enemies; and some people, strangers, maliciously disposed, thought it no credit to his character. His daughter had no enemies, but no one had ever blamed her for her unlimited friendliness. In her father’s wholesale entertainments the whole town knew and admired his daughter; in her husband’s popular church she had come to know the women of the countryside about them. Her mind strayed off to these women, farmers’ wives, comfortably off in a plain way, but starving for companionship, for occasional stimulus and pleasure. It was one of her joys in her husband’s time to bring together these women — to teach and entertain them.
Suddenly she stopped short in the middle of the great high-ceiled room, and drew her head up proudly like a victorious queen. One wide, triumphant, sweeping glance she cast at the well-loved walls — and went back to her desk, working swiftly, excitedly, well into the hours of the night.
*
Presently the little town began to buzz, and the murmur ran far out into the surrounding country. Sunbonnets wagged over fences; butcher carts and pedlar’s wagon carried the news farther; and ladies visiting found one topic in a thousand houses.
Mrs. Morrison was going to entertain. Mrs. Morrison had invited the whole feminine population, it would appear, to meet Mrs. Isabelle Carter Blake, of Chicago. Even Haddleton had heard of Mrs. Isabelle Carter Blake. And even Haddleton had nothing but admiration for her.
She was known the world over for her splendid work for children — for the school children and the working children of the country. Yet she was known also to have lovingly and wisely reared six children of her own — and made her husband happy in his home. On top of that she had lately written a novel, a po
pular novel, of which everyone was talking; and on top of that she was an intimate friend of a certain conspicuous Countess — an Italian.
It was even rumored, by some who knew Mrs. Morrison better than others — or thought they did — that the Countess was coming, too! No one had known before that Delia Welcome was a school-mate of Isabel Carter, and a lifelong friend; and that was ground for talk in itself.
The day arrived, and the guests arrived. They came in hundreds upon hundreds, and found ample room in the great white house.
The highest dream of the guests was realized — the Countess had come, too. With excited joy they met her, receiving impressions that would last them for all their lives, for those large widening waves of reminiscence which delight us the more as years pass. It was an incredible glory — Mrs. Isabelle Carter Blake, and a Countess!
Some were moved to note that Mrs. Morrison looked the easy peer of these eminent ladies, and treated the foreign nobility precisely as she did her other friends.
She spoke, her clear quiet voice reaching across the murmuring din, and silencing it.
“Shall we go into the east room? If you will all take chairs in the east room, Mrs. Blake is going to be so kind as to address us. Also perhaps her friend—”
They crowded in, sitting somewhat timorously on the unfolded chairs.
Then the great Mrs. Blake made them an address of memorable power and beauty, which received vivid sanction from that imposing presence in Parisian garments on the platform by her side. Mrs. Blake spoke to them of the work she was interested in, and how it was aided everywhere by the women’s clubs. She gave them the number of these clubs, and described with contagious enthusiasm the inspiration of their great meetings. She spoke of the women’s club houses, going up in city after city, where many associations meet and help one another. She was winning and convincing and most entertaining — an extremely attractive speaker.
Had they a women’s club there? They had not.
Not yet, she suggested, adding that it took no time at all to make one.
They were delighted and impressed with Mrs. Blake’s speech, but its effect was greatly intensified by the address of the Countess.
“I, too, am American,” she told them; “born here, reared in England, married in Italy.” And she stirred their hearts with a vivid account of the women’s clubs and associations all over Europe, and what they were accomplishing. She was going back soon, she said, the wiser and happier for this visit to her native land, and she should remember particularly this beautiful, quiet town, trusting that if she came to it again it would have joined the great sisterhood of women, “whose hands were touching around the world for the common good.”
It was a great occasion.
The Countess left next day, but Mrs. Blake remained, and spoke in some of the church meetings, to an ever widening circle of admirers. Her suggestions were practical.
“What you need here is a ‘Rest and Improvement Club,’” she said. “Here are all you women coming in from the country to do your shopping — and no place to go to. No place to lie down if you’re tired, to meet a friend, to eat your lunch in peace, to do your hair. All you have to do is organize, pay some small regular due, and provide yourselves with what you want.”
There was a volume of questions and suggestions, a little opposition, much random activity.
Who was to do it? Where was there a suitable place? They would have to hire someone to take charge of it. It would only be used once a week. It would cost too much.
Mrs. Blake, still practical, made another suggestion. Why not combine business with pleasure, and make use of the best place in town, if you can get it? I think Mrs. Morrison could be persuaded to let you use part of her house; it’s quite too big for one woman.”
Then Mrs. Morrison, simple and cordial as ever, greeted with warm enthusiasm by her wide circle of friends.
“I have been thinking this over,” she said. “Mrs. Blake has been discussing it with me. My house is certainly big enough for all of you, and there am I, with nothing to do but entertain you. Suppose you formed such a club as you speak of — for Rest and Improvement. My parlors are big enough for all manner of meetings; there are bedrooms in plenty for resting. If you form such a club I shall be glad to help with my great, cumbersome house, shall be delighted to see so many friends there so often; and I think I could furnish accommodations more cheaply than you could manage in any other way.
Then Mrs. Blake gave them facts and figures, showing how much clubhouses cost — and how little this arrangement would cost. “Most women have very little money, I know,” she said, “and they hate to spend it on themselves when they have; but even a little money from each goes a long way when it is put together. I fancy there are none of us so poor we could not squeeze out, say ten cents a week. For a hundred women that would be ten dollars. Could you feed a hundred tired women for ten dollars, Mrs. Morrison?”
Mrs. Morrison smiled cordially. “Not on chicken pie,” she said, “But I could give them tea and coffee, crackers and cheese for that, I think. And a quiet place to rest, and a reading room, and a place to hold meetings.”
Then Mrs. Blake quite swept them off their feet by her wit and eloquence. She gave them to understand that if a share in the palatial accommodation of the Welcome House, and as good tea and coffee as old Sally made, with a place to meet, a place to rest, a place to talk, a place to lie down, could be had for ten cents a week each, she advised them to clinch the arrangement at once before Mrs. Morrison’s natural good sense had overcome her enthusiasm.
Before Mrs. Isabelle Carter Blake had left, Haddleton had a large and eager women’s club, whose entire expenses, outside of stationary and postage, consisted of ten cents a week per capita, paid to Mrs. Morrison. Everybody belonged. It was open at once for charter members, and all pressed forward to claim that privileged place.
They joined by hundreds, and from each member came this tiny sum to Mrs. Morrison each week. It was very little money, taken separately. But it added up with silent speed. Tea and coffee, purchased in bulk, crackers by the barrel, and whole cheeses — these are not expensive luxuries. The town was full of Mrs. Morrison’s ex-Sunday-school boys, who furnished her with the best they had — at cost. There was a good deal of work, a good deal of care, and room for the whole supply of Mrs. Morrison’s diplomatic talent and experience. Saturdays found the Welcome House as full as it could hold, and Sundays found Mrs. Morrison in bed. But she liked it.
A busy, hopeful year flew by, and then she went to Jean’s for Thanksgiving.
The room Jean gave her was about the same size as her haven in Andrew’s home, but one flight higher up, and with a sloping ceiling. Mrs. Morrison whitened her dark hair upon it, and rubbed her head confusedly. Then she shook it with renewed determination.
The house was full of babies. There was little Joe, able to get about, and into everything. There were the twins, and there was the new baby. There was one servant, over-worked and cross. There was a small, cheap, totally inadequate nursemaid. There was Jean, happy but tired, full of joy, anxiety and affection, proud of her children, proud of her husband, and delighted to unfold her heart to her mother.
By the hour she babbled of their cares and hopes, while Mrs. Morrison, tall and elegant in her well-kept old black silk, sat holding the baby or trying to hold the twins. The old silk was pretty well finished by the week’s end. Joseph talked to her also, telling her how well he was getting on, and how much he needed capital, urging her to come and stay with them; it was such a help to Jeannie; asking questions about the house.
There was no going visiting here. Jeannie could not leave the babies. And few visitors; all the little suburb being full of similarly overburdened mothers. Such as called found Mrs. Morrison charming. What she found them, she did not say. She bade her daughter an affectionate good-bye when the week was up, smiling at their mutual contentment.
“Good-bye, my dear children,” she said. “I am so glad for all your happiness.
I am thankful for both of you.”
But she was more thankful to get home.
Mr. Butts did not have to call for his interest this time, but he called none the less.
“How on earth’d you get it, Delia?” he demanded. “Screwed it out o’ these club-women?”
“Your interest is so moderate, Mr. Butts, that it is easier to meet than you imagine,” was her answer. “Do you know the average interest they charge in Colorado? The women vote there, you know.”
He went away with no more personal information than that; and no nearer approach to the twin goals of his desire than the passing of the year.
“One more year, Delia,” he said; “then you’ll have to give in.”
“One more year!” she said to herself, and took up her chosen task with renewed energy.
The financial basis of the undertaking was very simple, but it would never have worked so well under less skilful management. Five dollars a year these country women could not have faced, but ten cents a week was possible to the poorest. There was no difficulty in collecting, for they brought it themselves; no unpleasantness in receiving, for old Sally stood at the receipt of custom and presented the covered cash box when they came for their tea.
On the crowded Saturdays the great urns were set going, the mighty array of cups arranged in easy reach, the ladies filed by, each taking her refection and leaving her dime. Where the effort came was in enlarging the membership and keeping up the attendance, and this effort was precisely in the line of Mrs. Morrison’s splendid talents.
Serene, cheerful, inconspicuously active, planning like the born statesman she was, executing like a practical politician, Mrs. Morrison gave her mind to the work, and thrived upon it. Circle within circle, and group within group, she set small classes and departments at work, having a boys’ club by and by in the big room over the woodshed, girls’ clubs, reading clubs, study clubs, little meetings of every sort that were not held in churches, and some that were — previously.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 138