The Foreunner (1:1): What Diantha Did, Chapter I: "Handicapped" (Serial Fiction, Charlotte Perkins Gilman)

The Forerunner: 1:1 (November 1909): Table of Contents

One may use the Old Man of the Sea,
--For a partner or patron,
But helpless and hapless is he
Who is ridden, inextricably,
--By a fond old mer-matron.


The Warden house was more impressive in appearance than its neighbors.
It had "grounds," instead of a yard or garden; it had wide pillared
porches and "galleries," showing southern antecedents; moreover, it had
a cupola, giving date to the building, and proof of the continuing
ambitions of the builders.

The stately mansion was covered with heavy flowering vines, also with
heavy mortgages. Mrs. Roscoe Warden and her four daughters reposed
peacefully under the vines, while Roscoe Warden, Jr., struggled
desperately under the mortgages.

A slender, languid lady was Mrs. Warden, wearing her thin but still
brown hair in "water-waves" over a pale high forehead. She was sitting
on a couch on the broad, rose-shaded porch, surrounded by billowing
masses of vari-colored worsted. It was her delight to purchase skein on
skein of soft, bright-hued wool, cut it all up into short lengths, tie
them together again in contrasting colors, and then crochet this hashed
rainbow into afghans of startling aspect. California does not call for
afghans to any great extent, but "they make such acceptable presents,"
Mrs. Warden declared, to those who questioned the purpose of her work;
and she continued to send them off, on Christmases, birthdays, and minor
weddings, in a stream of pillowy bundles. As they were accepted, they
must have been acceptable, and the stream flowed on.

Around her, among the gay blossoms and gayer wools, sat her four
daughters, variously intent. The mother, a poetic soul, had named them
musically and with dulcet rhymes: Madeline and Adeline were the two
eldest, Coraline and Doraline the two youngest. It had not occurred to
her until too late that those melodious terminations made it impossible
to call one daughter without calling two, and that "Lina" called them
all.

"Mis' Immerjin," said a soft voice in the doorway, "dere pos'tively
ain't no butter in de house fer supper."

"No butter?" said Mrs. Warden, incredulously. "Why, Sukey, I'm sure we
had a tub sent up last--last Tuesday!"

"A week ago Tuesday, more likely, mother," suggested Dora.

"Nonsense, Dora! It was this week, wasn't it, girls?" The mother
appealed to them quite earnestly, as if the date of that tub's delivery
would furnish forth the supper-table; but none of the young ladies save
Dora had even a contradiction to offer.

"You know I never notice things," said the artistic Cora; and "the
de-lines," as their younger sisters called them, said nothing.

"I might borrow some o' Mis' Bell?" suggested Sukey; "dat's nearer 'n'
de sto'."

"Yes, do, Sukey," her mistress agreed. "It is so hot. But what have
you done with that tubful?"

"Why, some I tuk back to Mis' Bell for what I borrered befo'--I'm always
most careful to make return for what I borrers--and yo' know, Mis'
Warden, dat waffles and sweet potaters and cohn bread dey do take
butter; to say nothin' o' them little cakes you all likes so well--an'
de fried chicken, an'--"

"Never mind, Sukey; you go and present my compliments to Mrs. Bell, and
ask her for some; and be sure you return it promptly. Now, girls, don't
let me forget to tell Ross to send up another tub."

"We can't seem to remember any better than you can, mother," said
Adeline, dreamily. "Those details are so utterly uninteresting."

"I should think it was Sukey's business to tell him," said Madeline with
decision; while the "a-lines" kept silence this time.

"There! Sukey's gone!" Mrs. Warden suddenly remarked, watching the
stout figure moving heavily away under the pepper trees. "And I meant
to have asked her to make me a glass of shrub! Dora, dear, you run and
get it for mother."

Dora laid down her work, not too regretfully, and started off.

"That child is the most practical of any of you," said her mother; which
statement was tacitly accepted. It was not extravagant praise.

Dora poked about in the refrigerator for a bit of ice. She ho no idea
of the high cost of ice in that region--it came from "the store," like
all their provisions. It did not occur to her that fish and milk and
melons made a poor combination in flavor; or that the clammy,
sub-offensive smell was not the natural and necessary odor of
refrigerators. Neither did she think that a sunny corner of the back
porch near the chimney, though convenient, was an ill-selected spot for
a refrigerator. She couldn't find the ice-pick, so put a big piece of
ice in a towel and broke it on the edge of the sink; replaced the
largest fragment, used what she wanted, and left the rest to filter
slowly down through a mass of grease and tea-leaves; found the raspberry
vinegar, and made a very satisfactory beverage which her mother received
with grateful affection.

"Thank you, my darling," she said. "I wish you'd made a pitcherful."

"Why didn't you, Do?" her sisters demanded.

"You're too late," said Dora, hunting for her needle and then for her
thimble, and then for her twist; "but there's more in the kitchen."

"I'd rather go without than go into the kitchen," said Adeline; "I do
despise a kitchen." And this seemed to be the general sentiment; for no
one moved.

"My mother always liked raspberry shrub," said Mrs. Warden; "and your
Aunt Leicester, and your Raymond cousins."

Mrs. Warden had a wide family circle, many beloved relatives,
"connections" of whom she was duly proud and "kin" in such widening
ramifications that even her carefully reared daughters lost track of
them.

"You young people don't seem to care about your cousins at all!" pursued
their mother, somewhat severely, setting her glass on the railing, from
whence it was presently knocked off and broken.

"That's the fifth!" remarked Dora, under breath.

"Why should we, Ma?" inquired Cora. "We've never seen one of
them--except Madam Weatherstone!"

"We'll never forget her!" said Madeline, with delicate decision,
laying down the silk necktie she was knitting for Roscoe. "What
beautiful manners she had!"

"How rich is she, mother? Do you know?" asked Dora.

"Rich enough to do something for Roscoe, I'm sure, if she had a proper
family spirit," replied Mrs. Warden. "Her mother was own cousin to my
grandmother--one of the Virginia Paddingtons. Or she might do something
for you girls."

"I wish she would!" Adeline murmured, softly, her large eyes turned to
the horizon, her hands in her lap over the handkerchief she was marking
for Roscoe.

"Don't be ungrateful, Adeline," said her mother, firmly. "You have a
good home and a good brother; no girl ever had a better."

"But there is never anything going on," broke in Coraline, in a tone of
complaint; "no parties, no going away for vacations, no anything."

"Now, Cora, don't be discontented! You must not add a straw to dear
Roscoe's burdens," said her mother.

"Of course not, mother; I wouldn't for the world. I never saw her but
that once; and she wasn't very cordial. But, as you say, she might do
something. She might invite us to visit her."

"If she ever comes back again, I'm going to recite for her," said, Dora,
firmly.

Her mother gazed fondly on her youngest. "I wish you could, dear," she
agreed. "I'm sure you have talent; and Madam Weatherstone would
recognize it. And Adeline's music too. And Cora's art. I am very
proud of my girls."

Cora sat where the light fell well upon her work. She was illuminating
a volume of poems, painting flowers on the margins, in appropriate
places--for Roscoe.

"I wonder if he'll care for it?" she said, laying down her brush and
holding the book at arm's length to get the effect.

"Of course he will!" answered her mother, warmly. "It is not only the
beauty of it, but the affection! How are you getting on, Dora?"

Dora was laboring at a task almost beyond her fourteen years, consisting
of a negligee shirt of outing flannel, upon the breast of which she was
embroidering a large, intricate design--for Roscoe. She was an
ambitious child, but apt to tire in the execution of her large projects.

"I guess it'll be done," she said, a little wearily. "What are you going
to give him, mother?"

"Another bath-robe; his old one is so worn. And nothing is too good for
my boy."

"He's coming," said Adeline, who was still looking down the road; and
they all concealed their birthday work in haste.

A tall, straight young fellow, with an air of suddenly-faced maturity
upon him, opened the gate under the pepper trees and came toward them.

He had the finely molded features we see in portraits of handsome
ancestors, seeming to call for curling hair a little longish, and a rich
profusion of ruffled shirt. But his hair was sternly short, his shirt
severely plain, his proudly carried head spoke of effort rather than of
ease in its attitude.

Dora skipped to meet him, Cora descended a decorous step or two.
Madeline and Adeline, arm in arm, met him at the piazza edge, his mother
lifted her face.

"Well, mother, dear!" Affectionately he stooped and kissed her, and she
held his hand and stroked it lovingly. The sisters gathered about with
teasing affection, Dora poking in his coat-pocket for the stick candy
her father always used to bring her, and her brother still remembered.

"Aren't you home early, dear?" asked Mrs. Warden.

"Yes; I had a little headache"--he passed his hand over his
forehead--"and Joe can run the store till after supper, anyhow." They
flew to get him camphor, cologne, a menthol-pencil. Dora dragged forth
the wicker lounge. He was laid out carefully and fanned and fussed over
till his mother drove them all away.

"Now, just rest," she said. "It's an hour to supper time yet!" And she
covered him with her latest completed afghan, gathering up and carrying
away the incomplete one and its tumultuous constituents.

He was glad of the quiet, the fresh, sweet air, the smell of flowers
instead of the smell of molasses and cheese, soap and sulphur matches.
But the headache did not stop, nor the worry that caused it. He loved
his mother, he loved his sisters, he loved their home, but he did not
love the grocery business which had fallen so unexpectedly upon him at
his father's death, nor the load of debt which fell with it.

That they need never have had so large a "place" to "keep up" did not
occur to him. He had lived there most of his life, and it was home.
That the expenses of running the household were three times what they
needed to be, he did not know. His father had not questioned their
style of living, nor did he. That a family of five women might, between
them, do the work of the house, he did not even consider.

Mrs. Warden's health was never good, and since her husband's death she
had made daily use of many afghans on the many lounges of the house.
Madeline was "delicate," and Adeline was "frail"; Cora was "nervous,"
Dora was "only a child." So black Sukey and her husband Jonah did the
work of the place, so far as it was done; and Mrs. Warden held it a
miracle of management that she could "do with one servant," and the
height of womanly devotion on her daughters' part that they dusted the
parlor and arranged the flowers.

Roscoe shut his eyes and tried to rest, but his problem beset him
ruthlessly. There was the store--their one and only source of income.
There was the house, a steady, large expense. There were five women to
clothe and keep contented, beside himself. There was the unappeasable
demand of the mortgage--and there was Diantha.

When Mr. Warden died, some four years previously, Roscoe was a lad of
about twenty, just home from college, full of dreams of great service to
the world in science, expecting to go back for his doctor's degree next
year. Instead of which the older man had suddenly dropped beneath the
burden he had carried with such visible happiness and pride, such
unknown anxiety and straining effort; and the younger one had to step
into the harness on the spot.

He was brave, capable, wholly loyal to his mother and sisters, reared in
the traditions of older days as to a man's duty toward women. In his
first grief for his father, and the ready pride with which he undertook
to fill his place, he had not in the least estimated the weight of care
he was to carry, nor the time that he must carry it. A year, a year or
two, a few years, he told himself, as they passed, and he would make
more money; the girls, of course, would marry; he could "retire" in time
and take up his scientific work again. Then--there was Diantha.

When he found he loved this young neighbor of theirs, and that she loved
him, the first flush of happiness made all life look easier. They had
been engaged six months--and it was beginning to dawn upon the young man
that it might be six years--or sixteen years--before he could marry.

He could not sell the business--and if he could, he knew of no better
way to take care of his family. The girls did not marry, and even when
they did, he had figured this out to a dreary certainty, he would still
not be free. To pay the mortgages off, and keep up the house, even
without his sisters, would require all the money the store would bring
in for some six years ahead. The young man set his teeth hard and
turned his head sharply toward the road.

And there was Diantha.

She stood at the gate and smiled at him. He sprang to his feet,
headacheless for the moment, and joined her. Mrs. Warden, from the
lounge by her bedroom window, saw them move off together, and sighed.

"Poor Roscoe!" she said to herself. "It is very hard for him. But he
carries his difficulties nobly. He is a son to be proud of." And she
wept a little.

Diantha slipped her hand in his offered arm--he clasped it warmly with
his, and they walked along together.

"You won't come in and see mother and the girls?"

"No, thank you; not this time. I must get home and get supper.
Besides, I'd rather see just you."

He felt it a pity that there were so many houses along the road here,
but squeezed her hand, anyhow.

She looked at him keenly. "Headache?" she asked.

"Yes; it's nothing; it's gone already."

"Worry?" she asked.

"Yes, I suppose it is," he answered. "But I ought not to worry. I've
got a good home, a good mother, good sisters, and--you!" And he took
advantage of a high hedge and an empty lot on either side of them.

Diantha returned his kiss affectionately enough, but seemed preoccupied,
and walked in silence till he asked her what she was thinking about.

"About you, of course," she answered, brightly. "There are things I want
to say; and yet--I ought not to."

"You can say anything on earth to me," he answered.

"You are twenty-four," she began, musingly.

"Admitted at once."

"And I'm twenty-one and a half."

"That's no such awful revelation, surely!"

"And we've been engaged ever since my birthday," the girl pursued.

"All these are facts, dearest."

"Now, Ross, will you be perfectly frank with me? May I ask you an--an
impertinent question?"

"You may ask me any question you like; it couldn't be impertinent."

"You'll be scandalised, I know--but--well, here goes. What would you
think if Madeline--or any of the girls--should go away to work?"

He looked at her lovingly, but with a little smile on his firm mouth.

"I shouldn't allow it," he said.

"O--allow it? I asked you what you'd think."

"I should think it was a disgrace to the family, and a direct reproach
to me," be answered. "But it's no use talking about that. None of the
girls have any such foolish notion. And I wouldn't permit it if they
had."

Diantha smiled. "I suppose you never would permit your wife to work?"

"My widow might have to--not my wife." He held his fine head a trifle
higher, and her hand ached for a moment.

"Wouldn't you let me work--to help you, Ross?"

"My dearest girl, you've got something far harder than that to do for
me, and that's wait."

His face darkened again, and he passed his hand over his forehead.
"Sometimes I feel as if I ought not to hold you at all!" he burst out,
bitterly. "You ought to be free to marry a better man."

"There aren't any!" said Diantha, shaking her head slowly from side to
side. "And if there were--millions--I wouldn't marry any of 'em. I
love you" she firmly concluded.

"Then we'll just wait," said he, setting his teeth on the word, as if
he would crush it. "It won't be hard with you to help. You're better
worth it than Rachael and Leah together." They walked a few steps
silently.

"But how about science?" she asked him.

"I don't let myself think of it. I'll take that up later. We're young
enough, both of us, to wait for our happiness."

"And have you any idea--we might as well face the worst--how many years
do you think that will be, dearest?"

He was a little annoyed at her persistence. Also, though he would not
admit the thought, it did not seem quite the thing for her to ask. A
woman should not seek too definite a period of waiting. She ought to
trust--to just wait on general principles.

"I can face a thing better if I know just what I'm facing," said the
girl, quietly, "and I'd wait for you, if I had to, all my life. Will it
be twenty years, do you think?"

He looked relieved. "Why, no, indeed, darling. It oughtn't to be at
the outside more than five. Or six," he added, honest though reluctant.

"You see, father had no time to settle anything; there were outstanding
accounts, and the funeral expenses, and the mortgages. But the business
is good; and I can carry it; I can build it up." He shook his broad
shoulders determinedly. "I should think it might be within five,
perhaps even less. Good things happen sometimes--such as you, my heart's
delight."

They were at her gate now, and she stood a little while to say
good-night. A step inside there was a seat, walled in by evergreen,
roofed over by the wide acacia boughs. Many a long good-night had they
exchanged there, under the large, brilliant California moon. They sat
there, silent, now.

Diantha's heart was full of love for him, and pride and confidence in
him; but it was full of other feelings, too, which he could not fathom.
His trouble was clearer to her than to him; as heavy to bear. To her
mind, trained in all the minutiae of domestic economy, the Warden family
lived in careless wastefulness. That five women--for Dora was older
than she had been when she began to do housework--should require
servants, seemed to this New England-born girl mere laziness and pride.
That two voting women over twenty should prefer being supported by their
brother to supporting themselves, she condemned even more sharply.
Moreover, she felt well assured that with a different family to
"support," Mr. Warden would never have broken down so suddenly and
irrecoverably. Even that funeral--her face hardened as she thought of
the conspicuous "lot," the continual flowers, the monument (not wholly
paid for yet, that monument, though this she did not know)--all that
expenditure to do honor to the man they had worked to death (thus
brutally Diantha put it) was probably enough to put off their happiness
for a whole year.

She rose at last, her hand still held in his. "I'm sorry, but I've got
to get supper, dear," she said, "and you must go. Good-night for the
present; you'll be round by and by?"

"Yes, for a little while, after we close up," said he, and took himself
off, not too suddenly, walking straight and proud while her eves were on
him, throwing her a kiss from the corner; but his step lagging and his
headache settling down upon him again as he neared the large house with
the cupola.

Diantha watched him out of sight, turned and marched up the path to her
own door, her lips set tight, her well-shaped head as straightly held as
his. "It's a shame, a cruel, burning shame!" she told herself
rebelliously. "A man of his ability. Why, he could do anything, in his
own work! And he loved it so!

"To keep a grocery store--

"And nothing to show for all that splendid effort!

"They don't do a thing? They just live--and 'keep house!' All those
women!

"Six years? Likely to be sixty! But I'm not going to wait!"

______________________________________

Originally published in Forerunner: 1:1 (November 1909).

Etext from Project Gutenberg.

This public domain text has been presented as found (with some minor format changes); this website and its owners are not responsible for errors, substantive and/or minor.

The Forerunner: 1:1 (November 1909): Table of Contents

The Forerunner (1:1): "Three Thanksgivings" (Story, Charlotte Perkins Gilman)

The Forerunner: 1:1 (November 1909): Table of Contents

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.

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 popular 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.

For each and all there was, if wanted, tea and coffee, crackers and
cheese; simple fare, of unvarying excellence, and from each and all,
into the little cashbox, ten cents for these refreshments. From the
club members this came weekly; and the club members, kept up by a
constant variety of interests, came every week. As to numbers, before
the first six months was over The Haddleton Rest and Improvement Club
numbered five hundred women.

Now, five hundred times ten cents a week is twenty-six hundred dollars a
year. Twenty-six hundred dollars a year would not be very much to build
or rent a large house, to furnish five hundred people with chairs,
lounges, books, and magazines, dishes and service; and with food and
drink even of the simplest. But if you are miraculously supplied with a
club-house, furnished, with a manager and servant on the spot, then that
amount of money goes a long way.

On Saturdays Mrs. Morrison hired two helpers for half a day, for half a
dollar each. She stocked the library with many magazines for fifty
dollars a year. She covered fuel, light, and small miscellanies with
another hundred. And she fed her multitude with the plain viands agreed
upon, at about four cents apiece.

For her collateral entertainments, her many visits, the various new
expenses entailed, she paid as well; and yet at the end of the first
year she had not only her interest, but a solid thousand dollars of
clear profit. With a calm smile she surveyed it, heaped in neat stacks
of bills in the small safe in the wall behind her bed. Even Sally did
not know it was there.

The second season was better than the first. There were difficulties,
excitements, even some opposition, but she rounded out the year
triumphantly. "After that," she said to herself, "they may have the
deluge if they like."

She made all expenses, made her interest, made a little extra cash,
clearly her own, all over and above the second thousand dollars.

Then did she write to son and daughter, inviting them and their families
to come home to Thanksgiving, and closing each letter with joyous pride:
"Here is the money to come with."

They all came, with all the children and two nurses. There was plenty
of room in the Welcome House, and plenty of food on the long mahogany
table. Sally was as brisk as a bee, brilliant in scarlet and purple;
Mrs. Morrison carved her big turkey with queenly grace.

"I don't see that you're over-run with club women, mother," said
Jeannie.

"It's Thanksgiving, you know; they're all at home. I hope they are all
as happy, as thankful for their homes as I am for mine," said Mrs.
Morrison.

Afterward Mr. Butts called. With dignity and calm unruffled, Mrs.
Morrison handed him his interest--and principal.

Mr. Butts was almost loath to receive it, though his hand automatically
grasped the crisp blue check.

"I didn't know you had a bank account," he protested, somewhat
dubiously.

"Oh, yes; you'll find the check will be honored, Mr. Butts."

"I'd like to know how you got this money. You can't 'a' skinned it
out o' that club of yours."

"I appreciate your friendly interest, Mr. Butts; you have been most
kind."

"I believe some of these great friends of yours have lent it to you.
You won't be any better off, I can tell you."

"Come, come, Mr. Butts! Don't quarrel with good money. Let us part
friends."

And they parted.

______________________________________

Originally published in Forerunner: 1:1 (November 1909).

Etext from Project Gutenberg.

This public domain text has been presented as found (with some minor format changes); this website and its owners are not responsible for errors, substantive and/or minor.

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