Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  ‘Stop!’ said Saunders. ‘She is a woman, and I love her. For my sake, be still.’ And they were still for another gloomy mile, till they caught sight of Hilda herself, on the edge of the cliff above them, walking with a swift, free grace, her figure outlined clearly against the sky. She saw them presently, and began to descend a steep little path, motioning back their start to help her.

  ‘I was coming down anyway,’ she said, ‘and, besides, it is easier for one to come down than for two to come up. But I want to rest a moment, for I’ve been to Shark Rock, and then a story to tell and an opinion to ask.’

  They ensconced themselves in a shaded and windless corner, and Miss Warde was about to begin, when she espied a new-made friend of theirs, somewhat a lion in the little place, standing uncertainly a short way off, his hat in his hand.

  He was a young Russian, wealthy, noble, and famous in his own country, but now a lifelong exile, making a tool of what had been a weapon before — his pen.

  ‘Won’t you join us, Count Stefan?’ asked Hilda. ‘I want an audience to-day.’

  So the three gentlemen, after a moment’s talk, settled themselves at her feet and she began her story.

  ‘It is only a little one,’ she said, ‘but a true story; and I want your honest opinions on the merits of the case. Honest — mind you!

  ‘There was a young man, good and clever and all that, but a little queer and opinionated. He had great notions of the work he was going to do, and really showed some promise, though nobody believed in his reformatory ideas or his ability either — he was so indefinite. Well, he met a young woman.’

  ‘Of course,’ remarked Saunders.

  ‘Fate!’ said Clarke.

  ‘He was fortunate,’ murmured the Count.

  ‘Now, you must not interrupt,’ frowned Hilda. ‘This is a test case, and I want your calmest judgment. This young woman fell in love with him, and — I won’t say made up her mind, for that was not her method — but she wanted to marry him. She was a fine girl, handsome and clever, a genius in her line. She was musical, and they might have been great friends but for that. But he was a rabid reformer, and she cared for nothing but love and music; so he didn’t want to marry her, though he could not but love her in a way, she was so good and beautiful and — well, a strongly feminine nature.

  ‘They were intimate friends and talked with all the freedom of the philosopher on one side and the artist on the other. He found out how things were going, and told her freely his plans and hopes; how he was resolved never to marry, that she was to him but a dear friend — everything as clear as daylight.

  ‘But our young woman had her own plans and hopes. To do her justice, she didn’t believe in his projects at all, and felt sure she could make him both powerful and happy by marrying him; so she went to work. Her methods were simple. She just took advantage of the freedom of their friendship to play upon his masculine nature. She had no scruples of any kind in such a case.

  She loved him, and him alone, and meant to marry him — that was all.

  ‘Of course, it was only a matter of time. He struggled manfully, made engagements and broke them, left her and returned again; she always managed, by appealing to sympathy or friendship, or by a blank, reproachful silence, to get him to come and see her once more. After a while he felt his honor was engaged, and then he stuck to it, and married her. He loved her somewhat, you understand, through it all; only he knew—’

  ‘Knew what?’ from the Count, whose quiet eyes never left her face.

  ‘Knew how it would end.’

  ‘How did it end?’ asked Saunders, rather bitterly.

  ‘Just as he feared. It upset his work and health and everything. He wasn’t earning much anyway, and that bothered him, as it always does. There was a child, of course; and between the extra care and unusual demands, and the miserable state of mind he was in, it quite ruined him. He just went insane and killed himself — one of those excitable, nervous temperaments, you know.

  ‘That’s all the story. What I want of you gentlemen is an opinion on the relative guilt of the two parties.’

  ‘Guilt of the one party, you mean,’ said Saunders, harshly. ‘He was weak, no doubt — most men are in a similar case — but she was the one to blame!’

  ‘She didn’t force him to marry her,’ objected Hilda, mildly. ‘He might have escaped or refused.’

  ‘And where could he have gone, pray, to escape a hunter like that — even if he had the means, which I understand he hadn’t? And as to refusing — she led him on till he couldn’t refuse — in honor! No, indeed. Get a man into the hands of a woman like that, and he can neither escape nor refuse.’

  ‘I agree with George,’ said Howard Clarke. ‘The girl was altogether to blame.’

  ‘Do I understand,’ inquired the Count, with his perfect accent, ‘that she made the proposal of marriage?’

  ‘She did,’ said Hilda.

  ‘And that he explained to her that he did not love her in that way, and that he was unfit and unwilling to marry?’

  ‘Clearly and repeatedly,’ said Hilda.

  ‘And that, after being led into one engagement, he broke it and left her, only to be pulled back again?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘I am forced to agree with these gentlemen against the lady. She was most cruelly to blame.’

  Hilda’s eyes dwelt on him a moment admiringly, as he uttered the quiet but impressive syllables. Then she studied the other speakers.

  ‘It makes no difference in a case like that,’ Saunders broke out, ‘whether it’s a man or a woman. To play on a person like that and win him against his will through his worst and weakest nature! She was a criminal!’

  ‘But she loved him,’ said Hilda.

  ‘Love! Do you call that love? To ruin a man’s life!’ Mr Saunders’s horror overcame him and he became speechless.

  Hilda Warde sat quiet for a few minutes. ‘And you, Mr Clarke?’

  ‘Of course I say the same. Sorry, to a woman, but she was a selfish wretch!’

  Hilda heaved a long sigh.

  ‘Well, my friends,’ she said at length, ‘I hope you are honest. I have made one error in my story — just a trifle. The facts are all the same, but the sexes are reversed. It is the story of my friend May Henderson and her husband.’

  The Count looked mildly surprised, and seemed trying to rebuild the tale on the new basis in his mind.

  But Saunders spoke out vehemently.

  ‘Why, Hilda, it’s not the same case at all. John Henderson’s a capital fellow — a real genius. And his wife was a nervous hypochondriac. It was the kindest thing she ever did — her departure.’

  Hilda regarded him softly with her great brown eyes.

  ‘But she used to be a paragon of health, and of most brilliant promise. And she told him she did not wish to marry — was not able or willing.’

  Saunders laughed scornfully.

  ‘Plenty of girls would say that,’ he answered. ‘She was a beautiful creature, and he had a perfect right to marry her if he could. She need not let him if she really did not want to — it’s a free country!’

  ‘I am so glad it is a free country,’ said Hilda, rising. ‘I am quite satisfied with your answer, George. Don’t you think it will do for that single instance you mentioned last night?’

  ‘I see,’ he replied, in a restrained voice. ‘A very pretty little trap!’

  ‘It’s a wholly different matter when you change the sex,’ cried Mr Clarke, vehemently. ‘It alters — er — everything!’

  ‘So I see,’ said Hilda.

  ‘But, madame,’ the Count quietly interposed, ‘you say the tale remains the same — identical?’

  ‘Exactly the same, Count Stefan.’

  ‘Then surely the judgment is the same — the man was so the criminal!’

  ‘Excuse me — I must bid you good-bye,’ here broke in Mr Saunders. ‘I am going to Boston to-night, and sail Wednesday, as I told you. Howard is going to walk down with me.’


  The farewells were soon said, and somewhat coldly.

  ‘Shall we not go back together?’ asked Mr Clarke, seeing her also preparing to start.

  ‘Thank you, no,’ said she, ‘I am going by the upper path.’

  ‘May I accompany you?’ asked the Count.

  ‘If you care for climbing — and a high wind,’ she answered.

  And they went together.

  THE GIANT WISTERIA

  ‘MEDDLE not with my new vine, child! See! Thou hast already broken the tender shoot! Never needle or distaff for thee, and yet thou wilt not be quiet!’

  The nervous fingers wavered, clutched at a small carnelian cross that hung from her neck, then fell despairingly.

  ‘Give me my child, mother, and then I will be quiet!’

  ‘Hush! hush! thou fool — some one might be near! See — there is thy father coming, even now! Get in quickly!’

  She raised her eyes to her mother’s face, weary eyes that yet had a flickering, uncertain blaze in their shaded depths.

  ‘Art thou a mother and hast no pity on me, a mother? Give me my child!’

  Her voice rose in a strange, low cry, broken by her father’s hand upon her mouth.

  ‘Shameless!’ said he, with set teeth. ‘Get to thy chamber, and be not seen again to-night, or I will have thee bound!’

  She went at that, and a hard-faced serving woman followed, and presently returned, bringing a key to her mistress.

  ‘Is all well with her, — and the child also?’

  ‘She is quiet, Mistress Dwining, well for the night, be sure. The child fretteth endlessly, but save for that it thriveth with me.’

  The parents were left alone together on the high square porch with its great pillars, and the rising moon began to make faint shadows of the young vine leaves that shot up luxuriantly around them; moving shadows, like little stretching fingers, on the broad and heavy planks of the oaken floor.

  ‘It groweth well, this vine thou broughtest me in the ship, my husband.’

  ‘Aye,’ he broke in bitterly, ‘and so doth the shame I brought thee! Had I known of it I would sooner have had the ship founder beneath us, and have seen our child cleanly drowned, than live to this end!’

  ‘Thou art very hard, Samuel, art thou not afeard for her life? She grieveth sore for the child, aye, and for the green fields to walk in!’

  ‘Nay,’ said he grimly, ‘I fear not. She hath lost already what is more than life; and she shall have air enough soon. To-morrow the ship is ready, and we return to England. None knoweth of our stain here, not one, and if the town hath a child unaccounted for to rear in decent ways — why, it is not the first, even here. It will be well enough cared for! And truly we have matter for thankfulness, that her cousin is yet willing to marry her.’

  ‘Hast thou told him?’

  ‘Aye! Thinkest thou I would cast shame into another man’s house, unknowing it? He hath always desired her, but she would none of him, the stubborn! She hath small choice now!’

  ‘Will he be kind, Samuel? can he—’

  ‘Kind? What call’st thou it to take such as she to wife? Kind! How many men would take her, an’ she had double the fortune? and being of the family already, he is glad to hide the blot forever.’

  ‘An’ if she would not? He is but a coarse fellow, and she ever shunned him.’

  ‘Art thou mad, woman? She weddeth him ere we sail tomorrow, or she stayeth ever in that chamber. The girl is not so sheer a fool! He maketh an honest woman of her, and saveth our house from open shame. What other hope for her than a new life to cover the old? Let her have an honest child, an’ she so longeth for one!’

  He strode heavily across the porch, till the loose planks creaked again, strode back and forth, with his arms folded and his brows fiercely knit above his iron mouth.

  Overhead the shadows flickered mockingly across a white face among the leaves, with eyes of wasted fire.

  ‘O, George, what a house! what a lovely house! I am sure it’s haunted! Let us get that house to live in this summer! We will have Kate and Jack and Susy and Jim of course, and a splendid time of it!’

  Young husbands are indulgent, but still they have to recognize facts.

  ‘My dear, the house may not be to rent; and it may also not be habitable.’

  ‘There is surely somebody in it. I am going to inquire!’

  The great central gate was rusted off its hinges, and the long drive had trees in it, but a little footpath showed signs of steady usage, and up that Mrs Jenny went, followed by her obedient George. The front windows of the old mansion were blank, but in a wing at the back they found white curtains and open doors. Outside, in the clear May sunshine, a woman was washing. She was polite and friendly, and evidently glad of visitors in that lonely place. She ‘guessed it could be rented — didn’t know.’ The heirs were in Europe, but ‘there was a lawyer in New York had the lettin’ of it.’ There had been folks there years ago, but not in her time. She and her husband had the rent of their part for taking care of the place. ‘Not that they took much care on’t either, but keepin’ robbers out.’ It was furnished throughout, old-fashioned enough, but good; and if they took it she could do the work for ’em herself, she guessed— ‘if he was willin’!’

  Never was a crazy scheme more easily arranged. George knew that lawyer in New York; the rent was not alarming; and the nearness to a rising sea-shore resort made it a still pleasanter place to spend the summer.

  Kate and Jack and Susy and Jim cheerfully accepted, and the June moon found them all sitting on the high front porch.

  They had explored the house from top to bottom, from the great room in the garret, with nothing in it but a rickety cradle, to the well in the cellar without a curb and with a rusty chain going down to unknown blackness below. They had explored the grounds, once beautiful with rare trees and shrubs, but now a gloomy wilderness of tangled shade.

  The old lilacs and laburnums, the spirea and syringa, nodded against the second-story windows. What garden plants survived were great ragged bushes or great shapeless beds. A huge wistaria vine covered the whole front of the house. The trunk, it was too large to call a stem, rose at the corner of the porch by the high steps, and had once climbed its pillars; but now the pillars were wrenched from their places and held rigid and helpless by the tightly wound and knotted arms.

  It fenced in all the upper story of the porch with a knitted wall of stem and leaf; it ran along the eaves, holding up the gutter that had once supported it; it shaded every window with heavy green; and the drooping, fragrant blossoms made a waving sheet of purple from roof to ground.

  ‘Did you ever see such a wistaria!’ cried ecstatic Mrs Jenny. ‘It is worth the rent just to sit under such a vine, — a fig tree beside it would be sheer superfluity and wicked extravagance!’

  ‘Jenny makes much of her wistaria,’ said George, ‘because she’s so disappointed about the ghosts. She made up her mind at first sight to have ghosts in the house, and she can’t find even a ghost story!’

  ‘No,’ Jenny assented mournfully; ‘I pumped poor Mrs Pepperill for three days, but could get nothing out of her. But I’m convinced there is a story, if we could only find it. You need not tell me that a house like this, with a garden like this, and a cellar like this, isn’t haunted!’

  ‘I agree with you,’ said Jack. Jack was a reporter on a New York daily, and engaged to Mrs Jenny’s pretty sister. ‘And if we don’t find a real ghost, you may be very sure I shall make one. It’s too good an opportunity to lose!’

  The pretty sister, who sat next him, resented. ‘You shan’t do anything of the sort, Jack! This is a real ghostly place, and I won’t have you make fun of it! Look at that group of trees out there in the long grass — it looks for all the world like a crouching, hunted figure!’

  ‘It looks to me like a woman picking huckleberries,’ said Jim, who was married to George’s pretty sister.

  ‘Be still, Jim!’ said that fair young woman. ‘I believe in
Jenny’s ghost as much as she does. Such a place! Just look at this great wistaria trunk crawling up by the steps here! It looks for all the world like a writhing body — cringing — beseeching!’

  ‘Yes,’ answered the subdued Jim, ‘it does, Susy. See its waist, — about two yards of it, and twisted at that! A waste of good material!’

  ‘Don’t be so horrid, boys! Go off and smoke somewhere if you can’t be congenial!’

  ‘We can! We will! We’ll be as ghostly as you please.’ And forthwith they began to see bloodstains and crouching figures so plentifully that the most delightful shivers multiplied, and the fair enthusiasts started for bed, declaring they should never sleep a wink.

  ‘We shall all surely dream,’ cried Mrs Jenny, ‘and we must all tell our dreams in the morning!’

  ‘There’s another thing certain,’ said George, catching Susy as she tripped over a loose plank; ‘and that is that you frisky creatures must use the side door till I get this Eiffel tower of a portico fixed, or we shall have some fresh ghosts on our hands! We found a plank here that yawns like a trap-door — big enough to swallow you, — and I believe the bottom of the thing is in China!’

  The next morning found them all alive, and eating a substantial New England breakfast, to the accompaniment of saws and hammers on the porch, where carpenters of quite miraculous promptness were tearing things to pieces generally.

  ‘It’s got to come down mostly,’ they had said. ‘These timbers are clean rotted through, what ain’t pulled out o’ line by this great creeper. That’s about all that holds the thing up.’

  There was clear reason in what they said, and with a caution from anxious Mrs Jenny not to hurt the wistaria, they were left to demolish and repair at leisure.

  ‘How about ghosts?’ asked Jack after a fourth griddle cake. ‘I had one, and it’s taken away my appetite!’

  Mrs Jenny gave a little shriek and dropped her knife and fork. ‘Oh, so had I! I had the most awful — well, not dream exactly, but feeling. I had forgotten all about it!’