← catalogue

What Diantha Did

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman · English · Gutenberg #3016 · 338,976 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of What Diantha Did
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: What Diantha Did

Author: Charlotte Perkins Gilman


        
Release date: January 1, 2002 [eBook #3016]
                Most recently updated: September 4, 2026

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3016

Credits: Produced by Christopher Hapka, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHAT DIANTHA DID ***




WHAT DIANTHA DID

By Charlotte Perkins Gilman




CHAPTER I. HANDICAPPED


     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 had 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,” he 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 eyes 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!”




CHAPTER II. AN UNNATURAL DAUGHTER


     The brooding bird fulfills her task,
      Or she-bear lean and brown;
     All parent beasts see duty true,
     All parent beasts their duty do,
     We are the only kind that asks
      For duty upside down.


The stiff-rayed windmill stood like a tall mechanical flower, turning
slowly in the light afternoon wind; its faint regular metallic squeak
pricked the dry silence wearingly. Rampant fuchsias, red-jewelled,
heavy, ran up its framework, with crowding heliotrope and nasturtiums.
Thick straggling roses hung over the kitchen windows, and a row of dusty
eucalyptus trees rustled their stiff leaves, and gave an ineffectual
shade to the house.

It was one of those small frame houses common to the northeastern
states, which must be dear to the hearts of their dwellers. For no
other reason, surely, would the cold grey steep-roofed little boxes be
repeated so faithfully in the broad glow of a semi-tropical landscape.
There was an attempt at a “lawn,” the pet ambition of the transplanted
easterner; and a further attempt at “flower-beds,” which merely served
as a sort of springboard to their far-reaching products.

The parlor, behind the closed blinds, was as New England parlors are;
minus the hint of cosiness given by even a fireless stove; the little
bedrooms baked under the roof; only the kitchen spoke of human living,
and the living it portrayed was not, to say the least, joyous. It was
clean, clean with a cleanness that spoke of conscientious labor and
unremitting care. The zinc mat under the big cook-stove was scoured to a
dull glimmer, while that swart altar itself shone darkly from its daily
rubbing.

There was no dust nor smell of dust; no grease spots, no litter
anywhere. But the place bore no atmosphere of contented pride, as does
a Dutch, German or French kitchen, it spoke of Labor, Economy and
Duty--under restriction.

In the dead quiet of the afternoon Diantha and her mother sat there
sewing. The sun poured down through the dangling eucalyptus leaves. The
dry air, rich with flower odors, flowed softly in, pushing the white
sash curtains a steady inch or two. Ee-errr!--Ee-errr!--came the faint
whine of the windmill.

To the older woman rocking in her small splint chair by the rose-draped
window, her thoughts dwelling on long dark green grass, the shade of
elms, and cows knee-deep in river-shallows; this was California--hot,
arid, tedious in endless sunlight--a place of exile.

To the younger, the long seam of the turned sheet pinned tightly to her
knee, her needle flying firmly and steadily, and her thoughts full of
pouring moonlight through acacia boughs and Ross's murmured words, it
was California--rich, warm, full of sweet bloom and fruit, of boundless
vitality, promise, and power--home!

Mrs. Bell drew a long weary sigh, and laid down her work for a moment.

“Why don't you stop it Mother dear? There's surely no hurry about these
things.”

“No--not particularly,” her mother answered, “but there's plenty else to
do.” And she went on with the long neat hemming. Diantha did the “over
and over seam” up the middle.

“What _do_ you do it for anyway, Mother--I always hated this job--and
you don't seem to like it.”

“They wear almost twice as long, child, you know. The middle gets worn
and the edges don't. Now they're reversed. As to liking it--” She gave
a little smile, a smile that was too tired to be sarcastic, but which
certainly did not indicate pleasure.

“What kind of work do you like best--really?” her daughter inquired
suddenly, after a silent moment or two.

“Why--I don't know,” said her mother. “I never thought of it. I never
tried any but teaching. I didn't like that. Neither did your Aunt
Esther, but she's still teaching.”

“Didn't you like any of it?” pursued Diantha.

“I liked arithmetic best. I always loved arithmetic, when I went to
school--used to stand highest in that.”

“And what part of housework do you like best?” the girl persisted.

Mrs. Bell smiled again, wanly. “Seems to me sometimes as if I couldn't
tell sometimes what part I like least!” she answered. Then with sudden
heat--“O my Child! Don't you marry till Ross can afford at least one
girl for you!”

Diantha put her small, strong hands behind her head and leaned back in
her chair. “We'll have to wait some time for that I fancy,” she said.
“But, Mother, there is one part you like--keeping accounts! I never saw
anything like the way you manage the money, and I believe you've got
every bill since you were married.”

“Yes--I do love accounts,” Mrs. Bell admitted. “And I can keep run of
things. I've often thought your Father'd have done better if he'd let me
run that end of his business.”

Diantha gave a fierce little laugh. She admired her father in some ways,
enjoyed him in some ways, loved him as a child does if not ill-treated;
but she loved her mother with a sort of passionate pity mixed with
pride; feeling always nobler power in her than had ever had a fair
chance to grow. It seemed to her an interminable dull tragedy; this
graceful, eager, black-eyed woman, spending what to the girl was
literally a lifetime, in the conscientious performance of duties she did
not love.

She knew her mother's idea of duty, knew the clear head, the steady
will, the active intelligence holding her relentlessly to the task; the
chafe and fret of seeing her husband constantly attempting against her
judgment, and failing for lack of the help he scorned. Young as she was,
she realized that the nervous breakdown of these later years was wholly
due to that common misery of “the square man in the round hole.”

She folded her finished sheet in accurate lines and laid it away--taking
her mother's also. “Now you sit still for once, Mother dear, read or lie
down. Don't you stir till supper's ready.”

And from pantry to table she stepped, swiftly and lightly, setting out
what was needed, greased her pans and set them before her, and proceeded
to make biscuit.

Her mother watched her admiringly. “How easy you do it!” she said. “I
never could make bread without getting flour all over me. You don't
spill a speck!”

Diantha smiled. “I ought to do it easily by this time. Father's got to
have hot bread for supper--or thinks he has!--and I've made 'em--every
night when I was at home for this ten years back!”

“I guess you have,” said Mrs. Bell proudly. “You were only eleven when
you made your first batch. I can remember just as well! I had one of my
bad headaches that night--and it did seem as if I couldn't sit up! But
your Father's got to have his biscuit whether or no. And you said, 'Now
Mother you lie right still on that sofa and let me do it! I can!' And
you could!--you did! They were bettern' mine that first time--and your
Father praised 'em--and you've been at it ever since.”

“Yes,” said Diantha, with a deeper note of feeling than her mother
caught, “I've been at it ever since!”

“Except when you were teaching school,” pursued her mother.

“Except when I taught school at Medville,” Diantha corrected. “When I
taught here I made 'em just the same.”

“So you did,” agreed her mother. “So you did! No matter how tired you
were--you wouldn't admit it. You always were the best child!”

“If I was tired it was not of making biscuits anyhow. I was tired enough
of teaching school though. I've got something to tell you, presently,
Mother.”

She covered the biscuits with a light cloth and set them on the shelf
over the stove; then poked among the greasewood roots to find what
she wanted and started a fire. “Why _don't_ you get an oil stove? Or a
gasoline? It would be a lot easier.”

“Yes,” her mother agreed. “I've wanted one for twenty years; but you
know your Father won't have one in the house. He says they're dangerous.
What are you going to tell me, dear? I do hope you and Ross haven't
quarrelled.”

“No indeed we haven't, Mother. Ross is splendid. Only--”

“Only what, Dinah?”

“Only he's so tied up!” said the girl, brushing every chip from the
hearth. “He's perfectly helpless there, with that mother of his--and
those four sisters.”

“Ross is a good son,” said Mrs. Bell, “and a good brother. I never saw a
better. He's certainly doing his duty. Now if his father'd lived you two
could have got married by this time maybe, though you're too young yet.”

Diantha washed and put away the dishes she had used, saw that the pantry
was in its usual delicate order, and proceeded to set the table, with
light steps and no clatter of dishes.

“I'm twenty-one,” she said.

“Yes, you're twenty-one,” her mother allowed. “It don't seem possible,
but you are. My first baby!” she looked at her proudly.

“If Ross has to wait for all those girls to marry--and to pay his
father's debts--I'll be old enough,” said Diantha grimly.

Her mother watched her quick assured movements with admiration, and
listened with keen sympathy. “I know it's hard, dear child. You've
only been engaged six months--and it looks as if it might be some years
before Ross'll be able to marry. He's got an awful load for a boy to
carry alone.”

“I should say he had!” Diantha burst forth. “Five helpless women!--or
three women, and two girls. Though Cora's as old as I was when I began
to teach. And not one of 'em will lift a finger to earn her own living.”

“They weren't brought up that way,” said Mrs. Bell. “Their mother don't
approve of it. She thinks the home is the place for a woman--and so does
Ross--and so do I,” she added rather faintly.

Diantha put her pan of white puff-balls into the oven, sliced a quantity
of smoked beef in thin shavings, and made white sauce for it, talking
the while as if these acts were automatic. “I don't agree with Mrs.
Warden on that point, nor with Ross, nor with you, Mother,” she said,
“What I've got to tell you is this--I'm going away from home. To work.”

Mrs. Bell stopped rocking, stopped fanning, and regarded her daughter
with wide frightened eyes.

“Why Diantha!” she said. “Why Diantha! You wouldn't go and leave your
Mother!”

Diantha drew a deep breath and stood for a moment looking at the feeble
little woman in the chair. Then she went to her, knelt down and hugged
her close--close.

“It's not because I don't love you, Mother. It's because I do. And it's
not because I don't love Ross either:--it's because I _do._ I want to
take care of you, Mother, and make life easier for you as long as
you live. I want to help him--to help carry that awful load--and I'm
going--to--do--it!”

She stood up hastily, for a step sounded on the back porch. It was only
her sister, who hurried in, put a dish on the table, kissed her mother
and took another rocking-chair.

“I just ran in,” said she, “to bring those berries. Aren't they
beauties? The baby's asleep. Gerald hasn't got in yet. Supper's all
ready, and I can see him coming time enough to run back. Why, Mother!
What's the matter? You're crying!”

“Am I?” asked Mrs. Bell weakly; wiping her eyes in a dazed way.

“What are you doing to Mother, Diantha?” demanded young Mrs. Peters.
“Bless me! I thought you and she never had any differences! I was always
the black sheep, when I was at home. Maybe that's why I left so early!”

She looked very pretty and complacent, this young matron and mother of
nineteen; and patted the older woman's hand affectionately, demanding,
“Come--what's the trouble?”

“You might as well know now as later,” said her sister. “I have decided
to leave home, that's all.”

“To leave home!” Mrs. Peters sat up straight and stared at her. “To
leave home!--And Mother!”

“Well?” said Diantha, while the tears rose and ran over from her
mother's eyes. “Well, why not? You left home--and Mother--before you
were eighteen.”

“That's different!” said her sister sharply. “I left to be married,--to
have a home of my own. And besides I haven't gone far! I can see Mother
every day.”

“That's one reason I can go now better than later on,” Diantha said.
“You are close by in case of any trouble.”

“What on earth are you going for? Ross isn't ready to marry yet, is he?”

“No--nor likely to be for years. That's another reason I'm going.”

“But what _for,_ for goodness sake.”

“To earn money--for one thing.”

“Can't you earn money enough by teaching?” the Mother broke in eagerly.
“I know you haven't got the same place this fall--but you can get
another easy enough.”

Diantha shook her head. “No, Mother, I've had enough of that. I've
taught for four years. I don't like it, I don't do well, and it exhausts
me horribly. And I should never get beyond a thousand or fifteen hundred
dollars a year if I taught for a lifetime.”

“Well, I declare!” said her sister. “What do you _expect_ to get? I
should think fifteen hundred dollars a year was enough for any woman!”

Diantha peered into the oven and turned her biscuit pan around.

“And you're meaning to leave home just to make money, are you?”

“Why not?” said Diantha firmly. “Henderson did--when he was eighteen.
None of you blamed him.”

“I don't see what that's got to do with it,” her mother ventured.
“Henderson's a boy, and boys have to go, of course. A mother expects
that. But a girl--Why, Diantha! How can I get along without you! With my
health!”

“I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself to think of such a thing!”
 said young Mrs. Peters.

A slow step sounded outside, and an elderly man, tall, slouching,
carelessly dressed, entered, stumbling a little over the rag-mat at the
door.

“Father hasn't got used to that rug in fourteen years!” said his
youngest daughter laughingly. “And Mother will straighten it out after
him! I'm bringing Gerald up on better principles. You should just see
him wait on me!”

“A man should be master in his own household,” Mr. Bell proclaimed,
raising a dripping face from the basin and looking around for the
towel--which his wife handed him.

“You won't have much household to be master of presently,” said Mrs.
Peters provokingly. “Half of it's going to leave.”

Mr. Bell came out of his towel and looked from one to the other for some
explanation of this attempted joke, “What nonsense are you talking?” he
demanded.

“I think it's nonsense myself,” said the pretty young woman--her hand on
the doorknob. “But you'd better enjoy those biscuits of Di's while you
can--you won't get many more! There's Gerald--good night!” And off she
ran.

Diantha set the plateful on the table, puffy, brown, and crisply
crusted. “Supper's ready,” she said. “Do sit down, Mother,” and she held
the chair for her. “Minnie's quite right, Father, though I meant not to
tell you till you'd had supper. I am going away to work.”

Mr. Bell regarded his daughter with a stern, slow stare; not so much
surprised as annoyed by an untimely jesting. He ate a hot biscuit in two
un-Fletcherized mouthfuls, and put more sugar in his large cup of tea.
“You've got your Mother all worked up with your nonsense,” said he.
“What are you talking about anyway?”

Diantha met his eyes unflinchingly. He was a tall old man, still
handsome and impressive in appearance, had been the head of his own
household beyond question, ever since he was left the only son of
an idolizing mother. But he had never succeeded in being the head
of anything else. Repeated failures in the old New England home had
resulted in his ruthlessly selling all the property there; and bringing
his delicate wife and three young children to California. Vain were her
protests and objections. It would do her good--best place in the world
for children--good for nervous complaints too. A wife's duty was to
follow her husband, of course. She had followed, willy nilly; and it was
good for the children--there was no doubt of that.

Mr. Bell had profited little by his venture. They had the ranch, the
flowers and fruit and ample living of that rich soil; but he had failed
in oranges, failed in raisins, failed in prunes, and was now failing in
wealth-promising hens.

But Mrs. Bell, though an ineffectual housekeeper, did not fail in
the children. They had grown up big and vigorous, sturdy, handsome
creatures, especially the two younger ones. Diantha was good-looking
enough. Roscoe Warden thought her divinely beautiful. But her young
strength had been heavily taxed from childhood in that complex process
known as “helping mother.” As a little child she had been of constant
service in caring for the babies; and early developed such competence in
the various arts of house work as filled her mother with fond pride, and
even wrung from her father some grudging recognition. That he did not
value it more was because he expected such competence in women, all
women; it was their natural field of ability, their duty as wives and
mothers. Also as daughters. If they failed in it that was by illness or
perversity. If they succeeded--that was a matter of course.

He ate another of Diantha's excellent biscuits, his greyish-red whiskers
slowly wagging; and continued to eye her disapprovingly. She said
nothing, but tried to eat; and tried still harder to make her heart go
quietly, her cheeks keep cool, and her eyes dry. Mrs. Bell also strove
to keep a cheerful countenance; urged food upon her family; even tried
to open some topic of conversation; but her gentle words trailed off
into unnoticed silence.

Mr. Bell ate until he was satisfied and betook himself to a comfortable
chair by the lamp, where he unfolded the smart local paper and lit
his pipe. “When you've got through with the dishes, Diantha,” he said
coldly, “I'll hear about this proposition of yours.”

Diantha cleared the table, lowered the leaves, set it back against
the wall, spreading the turkey-red cloth upon it. She washed the
dishes,--her kettle long since boiling, scalded them, wiped them, set
them in their places; washed out the towels, wiped the pan and hung it
up, swiftly, accurately, and with a quietness that would have seemed
incredible to any mistress of heavy-footed servants. Then with
heightened color and firm-set mouth, she took her place by the lamplit
table and sat still.

Her mother was patiently darning large socks with many holes--a kind
of work she specially disliked. “You'll have to get some new socks,
Father,” she ventured, “these are pretty well gone.”

“O they'll do a good while yet,” he replied, not looking at them. “I
like your embroidery, my dear.”

That pleased her. She did not like to embroider, but she did like to be
praised.

Diantha took some socks and set to work, red-checked and excited, but
silent yet. Her mother's needle trembled irregularly under and over, and
a tear or two slid down her cheeks.

Finally Mr. Bell laid down his finished paper and his emptied pipe and
said, “Now then. Out with it.”

This was not a felicitious opening. It is really astonishing how little
diplomacy parents exhibit, how difficult they make it for the young to
introduce a proposition. There was nothing for it but a bald statement,
so Diantha made it baldly.

“I have decided to leave home and go to work,” she said.

“Don't you have work enough to do at home?” he inquired, with the same
air of quizzical superiority which had always annoyed her so intensely,
even as a little child.

She would cut short this form of discussion: “I am going away to earn
my living. I have given up school-teaching--I don't like it, and, there
isn't money enough in it. I have plans--which will speak for themselves
later.”

“So,” said Mr. Bell, “Plans all made, eh? I suppose you've considered
your Mother in these plans?”

“I have,” said his daughter. “It is largely on her account that I'm
going.”

“You think it'll be good for your Mother's health to lose your
assistance, do you?”

“I know she'll miss me; but I haven't left the work on her shoulders. I
am going to pay for a girl--to do the work I've done. It won't cost you
any more, Father; and you'll save some--for she'll do the washing too.
You didn't object to Henderson's going--at eighteen. You didn't object
to Minnie's going--at seventeen. Why should you object to my going--at
twenty-one.”

“I haven't objected--so far,” replied her father. “Have your plans also
allowed for the affection and duty you owe your parents?”

“I have done my duty--as well as I know how,” she answered. “Now I am
twenty-one, and self-supporting--and have a right to go.”

“O yes. You have a right--a legal right--if that's what you base your
idea of a child's duty on! And while you're talking of rights--how about
a parent's rights? How about common gratitude! How about what you owe
to me--for all the care and pains and cost it's been to bring you up. A
child's a rather expensive investment these days.”

Diantha flushed, she had expected this, and yet it struck her like a
blow. It was not the first time she had heard it--this claim of filial
obligation.

“I have considered that position, Father. I know you feel that
way--you've often made me feel it. So I've been at some pains to work it
out--on a money basis. Here is an account--as full as I could make it.”
 She handed him a paper covered with neat figures. The totals read as
follows:

     Miss Diantha Bell,
     To Mr. Henderson R. Bell, Dr.

     To medical and dental expenses... $110.00
     To school expenses... $76.00
     To clothing, in full... $1,130.00
     To board and lodging at $3.00 a week... $2,184.00
     To incidentals... $100.00
      --------      $3.600.00

He studied the various items carefully, stroking his beard, half in
anger, half in unavoidable amusement. Perhaps there was a tender feeling
too, as he remembered that doctor's bill--the first he ever paid, with
the other, when she had scarlet fever; and saw the exact price of the
high chair which had served all three of the children, but of which she
magnanimously shouldered the whole expense.

The clothing total was so large that it made him whistle--he knew he had
never spent $1,130.00 on one girl's clothes. But the items explained it.

   Materials, three years at an average of $10 a year... $30.00
   Five years averaging $20 each year... $100.00
   Five years averaging $30 each year... $50.00
   Five years averaging $50 each year... $250.00
   -------   $530.00

The rest was “Mother's labor”, averaging twenty full days a year at $2
a day, $40 a year. For fifteen years, $600.00. Mother's labor--on one
child's, clothes--footing up to $600.00. It looked strange to see cash
value attached to that unfailing source of family comfort and advantage.

The school expenses puzzled him a bit, for she had only gone to public
schools; but she was counting books and slates and even pencils--it
brought up evenings long passed by, the sewing wife, the studying
children, the “Say, Father, I've got to have a new slate--mine's broke!”

“Broken, Dina,” her Mother would gently correct, while he demanded,
“How did you break it?” and scolded her for her careless tomboy ways.
Slates--three, $1.50--they were all down. And slates didn't cost so much
come to think of it, even the red-edged ones, wound with black, that she
always wanted.

Board and lodging was put low, at $3.00 per week, but the items had a
footnote as to house-rent in the country, and food raised on the farm.
Yes, he guessed that was a full rate for the plain food and bare little
bedroom they always had.

“It's what Aunt Esther paid the winter she was here,” said Diantha.

   Circuses--three... $1.50
   Share in melodeon... $50.00

Yes, she was one of five to use and enjoy it.

   Music lessons... $30.00

And quite a large margin left here, called miscellaneous, which he
smiled to observe made just an even figure, and suspected she had put in
for that purpose as well as from generosity.

“This board account looks kind of funny,” he said--“only fourteen years
of it!”

“I didn't take table-board--nor a room--the first year--nor much
the second. I've allowed $1.00 a week for that, and $2.00 for the
third--that takes out two, you see. Then it's $156 a year till I was
fourteen and earned board and wages, two more years at $156--and I've
paid since I was seventeen, you know.”

“Well--I guess you did--I guess you did.” He grinned genially. “Yes,”
 he continued slowly, “I guess that's a fair enough account. 'Cording
to this, you owe me $3,600.00, young woman! I didn't think it cost that
much to raise a girl.”

“I know it,” said she. “But here's the other side.”

It was the other side. He had never once thought of such a side to the
case. This account was as clear and honest as the first and full of
exasperating detail. She laid before him the second sheet of figures and
watched while he read, explaining hurriedly:

“It was a clear expense for ten years--not counting help with the
babies. Then I began to do housework regularly--when I was ten or
eleven, two hours a day; three when I was twelve and thirteen--real work
you'd have had to pay for, and I've only put it at ten cents an hour.
When Mother was sick the year I was fourteen, and I did it all but the
washing--all a servant would have done for $3.00 a week. Ever since then
I have done three hours a day outside of school, full grown work now, at
twenty cents an hour. That's what we have to pay here, you know.”

Thus it mounted up:

   Mr. Henderson R. Bell,
   To Miss Diantha Bell, Dr.

   For labor and services!!!!!

   Two years, two hours a day at 10c. an hour... $146.00
   Two years, three hours a day at 10c. an hour... $219.00
   One year, full wages at $5.00 a week... $260.00
   Six years and a half, three hours a day at 20c... $1423.50
   --------   $2048.50

Mr. Bell meditated carefully on these figures. To think of that child's
labor footing up to two thousand dollars and over! It was lucky a man
had a wife and daughters to do this work, or he could never support a
family.

Then came her school-teaching years. She had always been a fine scholar
and he had felt very proud of his girl when she got a good school
position in her eighteenth year.

California salaries were higher than eastern ones, and times had
changed too; the year he taught school he remembered the salary was only
$300.00--and he was a man. This girl got $600, next year $700, $800,
$900; why it made $3,000 she had earned in four years. Astonishing. Out
of this she had a balance in the bank of $550.00. He was pleased to see
that she had been so saving. And her clothing account--little enough he
admitted for four years and six months, $300.00. All incidentals for
the whole time, $50.00--this with her balance made just $900. That left
$2,100.00.

“Twenty-one hundred dollars unaccounted for, young lady!--besides this
nest egg in the bank--I'd no idea you were so wealthy. What have you
done with all that?”

“Given it to you, Father,” said she quietly, and handed him the third
sheet of figures.

Board and lodging at $4.00 a week for 4 1/2 years made $936.00, that he
could realize; but “cash advance” $1,164 more--he could not believe it.
That time her mother was so sick and Diantha had paid both the doctor
and the nurse--yes--he had been much cramped that year--and nurses come
high. For Henderson, Jr.'s, expenses to San Francisco, and again for
Henderson when he was out of a job--Mr. Bell remembered the boy's
writing for the money, and his not having it, and Mrs. Bell saying she
could arrange with Diantha.

Arrange! And that girl had kept this niggardly account of it! For
Minnie's trip to the Yosemite--and what was this?--for his raisin
experiment--for the new horse they simply had to have for the drying
apparatus that year he lost so much money in apricots--and for the
spraying materials--yes, he could not deny the items, and they covered
that $1,164.00 exactly.

Then came the deadly balance, of the account between them:

   Her labor... $2,047.00
   Her board... $936.00
   Her “cash advanced”... $1,164.00
   ---------   $4,147.00
   His expense for her... $3,600
   ---------   Due her from him... $547.00

Diantha revolved her pencil between firm palms, and looked at him
rather quizzically; while her mother rocked and darned and wiped away an
occasional tear. She almost wished she had not kept accounts so well.

Mr. Bell pushed the papers away and started to his feet.

“This is the most shameful piece of calculation I ever saw in my life,”
 said he. “I never heard of such a thing! You go and count up in cold
dollars the work that every decent girl does for her family and is glad
to! I wonder you haven't charged your mother for nursing her?”

“You notice I haven't,” said Diantha coldly.

“And to think,” said he, gripping the back of a chair and looking down
at her fiercely, “to think that a girl who can earn nine hundred dollars
a year teaching school, and stay at home and do her duty by her family
besides, should plan to desert her mother outright--now she's old and
sick! Of course I can't stop you! You're of age, and children nowadays
have no sense of natural obligation after they're grown up. You can
go, of course, and disgrace the family as you propose--but you needn't
expect to have me consent to it or approve of it--or of you. It's a
shameful thing--and you are an unnatural daughter--that's all I've got
to say!”

Mr. Bell took his hat and went out--a conclusive form of punctuation
much used by men in discussions of this sort.




CHAPTER III. BREAKERS


   Duck! Dive! Here comes another one!
   Wait till the crest-ruffles show!
   Beyond is smooth water in beauty and wonder--
   Shut your mouth!  Hold your breath!  Dip your head under!
   Dive through the weight and the wash, and the thunder--
   Look out for the undertow!


If Diantha imagined that her arithmetical victory over a too-sordid
presentation of the parental claim was a final one, she soon found
herself mistaken.

It is easy to say--putting an epic in an epigram--“She seen her duty and
she done it!” but the space and time covered are generally as far beyond
our plans as the estimates of an amateur mountain climber exceed his
achievements.

Her determination was not concealed by her outraged family. Possibly
they thought that if the matter was well aired, and generally discussed,
the daring offender might reconsider. Well-aired it certainly was, and
widely discussed by the parents of the little town before young people
who sat in dumbness, or made faint defense. It was also discussed by the
young people, but not before their parents.

She had told Ross, first of all, meaning to have a quiet talk with him
to clear the ground before arousing her own family; but he was suddenly
away just as she opened the subject, by a man on a wheel--some wretched
business about the store of course--and sent word that night that he
could not come up again. Couldn't come up the next night either. Two
long days--two long evenings without seeing him. Well--if she went away
she'd have to get used to that.

But she had so many things to explain, so much to say to make it
right with him; she knew well what a blow it was. Now it was all over
town--and she had had no chance to defend her position.

The neighbors called. Tall bony Mrs. Delafield who lived nearest to them
and had known Diantha for some years, felt it her duty to make a special
appeal--or attack rather; and brought with her stout Mrs. Schlosster,
whose ancestors and traditions were evidently of German extraction.

Diantha retired to her room when she saw these two bearing down upon
the house; but her mother called her to make a pitcher of lemonade for
them--and having entered there was no escape. They harried her with
questions, were increasingly offended by her reticence, and expressed
disapproval with a fullness that overmastered the girl's self-control.

“I have as much right to go into business as any other citizen, Mrs.
Delafield,” she said with repressed intensity. “I am of age and live in
a free country. What you say of children no longer applies to me.”

“And what is this mysterious business you're goin' into--if one
may inquire? Nothin you're ashamed to mention, I hope?” asked Mrs.
Delafield.

“If a woman refuses to mention her age is it because she's ashamed of
it?” the girl retorted, and Mrs. Delafield flushed darkly.

“Never have I heard such talk from a maiden to her elders,” said Mrs.
Schlosster. “In my country the young have more respect, as is right.”

Mrs. Bell objected inwardly to any reprimand of her child by others; but
she agreed to the principle advanced and made no comment.

Diantha listened to quite a volume of detailed criticism, inquiry and
condemnation, and finally rose to her feet with the stiff courtesy of
the young.

“You must excuse me now,” she said with set lips. “I have some necessary
work to do.”

She marched upstairs, shut her bedroom door and locked it, raging
inwardly. “Its none of their business! Not a shadow! Why should Mother
sit there and let them talk to me like that! One would think childhood
had no limit--unless it's matrimony!”

This reminded her of her younger sister's airs of superior wisdom, and
did not conduce to a pleasanter frame of mind. “With all their miserable
little conventions and idiocies! And what 'they'll say,' and 'they'll
think'! As if I cared! Minnie'll be just such another!”

She heard the ladies going out, still talking continuously, a faint
response from her mother now and then, a growing quiet as their steps
receded toward the gate; and then another deeper voice took up the theme
and heavily approached.

It was the minister! Diantha dropped into her rocker and held the arms
tight. “Now I'll have to take it again I suppose. But he ought to know
me well enough to understand.”

“Diantha!” called her mother, “Here's Dr. Major;” and the girl washed
her face and came down again.

Dr. Major was a heavy elderly man with a strong mouth and a warm hand
clasp. “What's all this I hear about you, young lady?” he demanded,
holding her hand and looking her straight in the eye. “Is this a new
kind of Prodigal Daughter we're encountering?”

He did not look nor sound condemnatory, and as she faced him she caught
a twinkle in the wise old eyes.

“You can call it that if you want to,” she said, “Only I thought the
Prodigal Son just spent his money--I'm going to earn some.”

“I want you to talk to Diantha, Doctor Major,” Mrs. Bell struck in. “I'm
going to ask you to excuse me, and go and lie down for a little. I do
believe she'll listen to you more than to anybody.”

The mother retired, feeling sure that the good man who had known her
daughter for over fifteen years would have a restraining influence now;
and Diantha braced herself for the attack.

It came, heavy and solid, based on reason, religion, tradition, the
custom of ages, the pastoral habit of control and protection, the
father's instinct, the man's objection to a girl's adventure. But it was
courteous, kind, and rationally put, and she met it point by point with
the whole-souled arguments of a new position, the passionate enthusiasm
of her years.

They called a truce.

“I can see that you _think_ its your duty, young, woman--that's the main
thing. I think you're wrong. But what you believe to be right you
have to do. That's the way we learn my dear, that's the way we learn!
Well--you've been a good child ever since I've known you. A remarkably
good child. If you have to sow this kind of wild oats--” they both
smiled at this, “I guess we can't stop you. I'll keep your secret--”

“Its not a secret really,” the girl explained, “I'll tell them as soon
as I'm settled. Then they can tell--if they want to.” And they both
smiled again.

“Well--I won't tell till I hear of it then. And--yes, I guess I can
furnish that document with a clean conscience.”

She gave him paper and pen and he wrote, with a grin, handing her the
result.

She read it, a girlish giggle lightening the atmosphere. “Thank you!”
 she said earnestly. “Thank you ever so much. I knew you would help me.”

“If you get stuck anywhere just let me know,” he said rising. “This
Proddy Gal may want a return ticket yet!”

“I'll walk first!” said Diantha.

“O Dr. Major,” cried her mother from the window, “Don't go! We want you
to stay to supper of course!”

But he had other calls to make, he said, and went away, his big hands
clasped behind him; his head bent, smiling one minute and shaking his
head the next.

Diantha leaned against a pearly eucalyptus trunk and watched him. She
would miss Dr. Major. But who was this approaching? Her heart sank
miserably. Mrs. Warden--and _all_ the girls.

She went to meet them--perforce. Mrs. Warden had always been kind and
courteous to her; the girls she had not seen very much of, but they had
the sweet Southern manner, were always polite. Ross's mother she must
love. Ross's sisters too--if she could. Why did the bottom drop out of
her courage at sight of them?

“You dear child!” said Mrs. Warden, kissing her. “I know just how you
feel! You want to help my boy! That's your secret! But this won't do it,
my dear!”

“You've no idea how badly Ross feels!” said Madeline. “Mrs. Delafield
dropped in just now and told us. You ought to have seen him!”

“He didn't believe it of course,” Adeline put in. “And he wouldn't say a
thing--not a thing to blame you.”

“We said we'd come over right off--and tried to bring him--but he said
he'd got to go back to the store,” Coraline explained.

“He was mad though!” said Dora--“_I_ know.”

Diantha looked from one to the other helplessly.

“Come in! Come in!” said Mrs. Bell hospitably. “Have this rocker, Mrs.
Warden--wouldn't you like some cool drink? Diantha?”

“No indeed!” Mrs. Warden protested. “Don't get a thing. We're going
right back, it's near supper time. No, we can't think of staying, of
course not, no indeed!--But we had to come over and hear about this dear
child's idea!--Now tell us all about it, Diantha!”

There they sat--five pairs of curious eyes--and her mother's sad
ones--all kind--all utterly incapable of understanding.

She moistened her lips and plunged desperately. “It is nothing dreadful,
Mrs. Warden. Plenty of girls go away to earn their livings nowadays.
That is all I'm doing.”

“But why go away?”

“I thought you were earning your living before!”

“Isn't teaching earning your living?”

“What _are_ you going to do?” the girls protested variously, and Mrs.
Warden, with a motherly smile, suggested!!!!!

“That doesn't explain your wanting to leave Ross, my dear--and your
mother!”

“I don't want to leave them,” protested Diantha, trying to keep her
voice steady. “It is simply that I have made up my mind I can do better
elsewhere.”

“Do what better?” asked Mrs. Warden with sweet patience, which reduced
Diantha to the bald statement, “Earn more money in less time.”

“And is that better than staying with your mother and your lover?”
 pursued the gentle inquisitor; while the girls tried, “What do you want
to earn more money for?” and “I thought you earned a lot before.”

Now Diantha did not wish to state in so many words that she wanted more
money in order to marry sooner--she had hardly put it to herself that
way. She could not make them see in a few moments that her plan was to
do far more for her mother than she would otherwise ever be able to. And
as to making them understand the larger principles at stake--the range
and depth of her full purpose--that would be physically impossible.

“I am sorry!” she said with trembling lips. “I am extremely sorry.
But--I cannot explain!”

Mrs. Warden drew herself up a little. “Cannot explain to me?--Your
mother, of course, knows?”

“Diantha is naturally more frank with me than with--anyone,” said Mrs.
Bell proudly, “But she does not wish her--business--plans--made public
at present!”

Her daughter looked at her with vivid gratitude, but the words “made
public” were a little unfortunate perhaps.

“Of course,” Mrs. Warden agreed, with her charming smile, “that we can
quite understand. I'm sure I should always wish my girls to feel so.
Madeline--just show Mrs. Bell that necktie you're making--she was asking
about the stitch, you remember.”

The necktie was produced and admired, while the other girls asked
Diantha if she had her fall dressmaking done yet--and whether she
found wash ribbon satisfactory. And presently the whole graceful family
withdrew, only Dora holding her head with visible stiffness.

Diantha sat on the floor by her mother, put her head in her lap and
cried. “How splendid of you, Mother!” she sobbed. “How simply splendid!
I will tell you now--if--if--you won't tell even Father--yet.”

“Dear child” said her Mother, “I'd rather not know in that case. It
is--easier.”

“That's what I kept still for!” said the girl. “It's hard enough,
goodness knows--as it is! Its nothing wicked, or even risky, Mother
dear--and as far as I can see it is right!”

Her mother smiled through her tears. “If you say that, my dear child,
I know there's no stopping you. And I hate to argue with you--even for
your own sake, because it is so much to my advantage to have you here.
I--shall miss you--Diantha!”

“Don't, Mother!” sobbed the girl.

“Its natural for the young to go. We expect it--in time. But you are so
young yet--and--well, I had hoped the teaching would satisfy you till
Ross was ready.”

Diantha sat up straight.

“Mother! can't you see Ross'll never be ready! Look at that family! And
the way they live! And those mortgages! I could wait and teach and save
a little even with Father always losing money; but I can't see Ross
wearing himself out for years and years--I just _can't_ bear it!”

Her mother stroked her fair hair softly, not surprised that her own plea
was so lost in thought of the brave young lover.

“And besides,” the girl went on “If I waited--and saved--and married
Ross--what becomes of _you,_ I'd like to know? What I can't stand is to
have you grow older and sicker--and never have any good time in all your
life!”

Mrs. Bell smiled tenderly. “You dear child!” she said; as if an
affectionate five-year old had offered to get her a rainbow, “I know
you mean it all for the best. But, O my _dearest_! I'd rather have
you--here--at home with me---than any other 'good time' you can
imagine!”

She could not see the suffering in her daughter's face; but she felt
she had made an impression, and followed it up with heart-breaking
sincerity. She caught the girl to her breast and held her like a little
child. “O my baby! my baby! Don't leave your mother. I can't bear it!”

A familiar step outside, heavy, yet uncertain, and they both looked at
each other with frightened eyes.

They had forgotten the biscuit.


“Supper ready?” asked Mr. Bell, with grim humor.

“It will be in a moment, Father,” cried Diantha springing to her feet.
“At least--in a few moments.”

“Don't fret the child, Father,” said Mrs. Henderson softly. “She's
feeling bad enough.”

“Sh'd think she would,” replied her husband. “Moreover--to my mind--she
ought to.”

He got out the small damp local paper and his pipe, and composed himself
in obvious patience: yet somehow this patience seemed to fill the
kitchen, and to act like a ball and chain to Diantha's feet.

She got supper ready, at last, making griddle-cakes instead of biscuit,
and no comment was made of the change: but the tension in the atmosphere
was sharply felt by the two women; and possibly by the tall old man, who
ate less than usual, and said absolutely nothing.

“I'm going over to see Edwards about that new incubator,” he said when
the meal was over, and departed; and Mrs. Bell, after trying in vain to
do her mending, wiped her clouded glasses and went to bed.

Diantha made all neat and tidy; washed her own wet eyes again, and went
out under the moon. In that broad tender mellow light she drew a deep
breath and stretched her strong young arms toward the sky in dumb
appeal.

“I knew it would be hard,” she murmured to herself, “That is I knew the
facts--but I didn't know the feeling!”

She stood at the gate between the cypresses, sat waiting under the
acacia boughs, walked restlessly up and down the path outside, the dry
pepper berries crush softly under foot; bracing herself for one more
struggle--and the hardest of all.

“He will understand!” he told herself, over and over, but at the bottom
of her heart she knew he wouldn't.

He came at last; a slower, wearier step than usual; came and took both
her hands in his and stood holding them, looking at her questioningly.
Then he held her face between his palms and made her look at him. Her
eyes were brave and steady, but the mouth trembled in spite of her.

He stilled it with a kiss, and drew her to a seat on the bench beside
him. “My poor Little Girl! You haven't had a chance yet to really tell
me about this thing, and I want you to right now. Then I'm going to kill
about forty people in this town! _Somebody_ has been mighty foolish.”

She squeezed his hand, but found it very difficult to speak. His
love, his sympathy, his tenderness, were so delicious after this day's
trials--and before those further ones she could so well anticipate.
She didn't wish to cry any more, that would by no means strengthen her
position, and she found she couldn't seem to speak without crying.

“One would think to hear the good people of this town that you were
about to leave home and mother for--well, for a trip to the moon!” he
added. “There isn't any agreement as to what you're going to do, but
they're unanimous as to its being entirely wrong. Now suppose you tell
me about it.”

“I will,” said Diantha. “I began to the other night, you know, you first
of course--it was too bad! your having to go off at that exact moment.
Then I had to tell mother--because--well you'll see presently. Now
dear--just let me say it _all_--before you--do anything.”

“Say away, my darling. I trust you perfectly.”

She flashed a grateful look at him. “It is this way, my dear. I have
two, three, yes four, things to consider:--My own personal problem--my
family's--yours--and a social one.”

“My family's?” he asked, with a faint shade of offence in his tone.

“No no dear--your own,” she explained.

“Better cut mine out, Little Girl,” he said. “I'll consider that
myself.”

“Well--I won't talk about it if you don't want me to. There are the
other three.”

“I won't question your second, nor your imposing third, but isn't
the first one--your own personal problem--a good deal answered?” he
suggested, holding her close for a moment.

“Don't!” she said. “I can't talk straight when you put it that way.”

She rose hurriedly and took a step or two up and down. “I don't
suppose--in spite of your loving me, that I can make you see it as I
do. But I'll be just as clear as I can. There are some years before
us before we can be together. In that time I intend to go away and
undertake a business I am interested in. My purpose is to--develop the
work, to earn money, to help my family, and to--well, not to hinder
you.”

“I don't understand, I confess,” he said. “Don't you propose to tell me
what this 'work' is?”

“Yes--I will--certainly. But not yet dear! Let me try to show you how I
feel about it.”

“Wait,” said he. “One thing I want to be sure of. Are you doing this
with any quixotic notion of helping me--in _my_ business? Helping me to
take care of my family? Helping me to--” he stood up now, looking very
tall and rather forbidding, “No, I won't say that to you.”

“Would there be anything wrong in my meaning exactly that?” she asked,
holding her own head a little higher; “both what you said and what you
didn't?”

“It would be absolutely wrong, all of it,” he answered. “I cannot
believe that the woman I love would--could take such a position.”

“Look here, Ross!” said the girl earnestly. “Suppose you knew where
there was a gold mine--_knew it_--and by going away for a few years you
could get a real fortune--wouldn't you do it?”

“Naturally I should,” he agreed.

“Well, suppose it wasn't a gold mine, but a business, a new system
like those cigar stores--or--some patent amusement specialty--or
_anything_--that you knew was better than what you're doing--wouldn't
you have a right to try it?”

“Of course I should--but what has that to do with this case?”

“Why it's the same thing! Don't you see? I have plans that will be of
real benefit to all of us, something worth while to _do_--and not only
for us but for _everybody_--a real piece of progress--and I'm going
to leave my people--and even you!--for a little while--to make us all
happier later on.”

He smiled lovingly at her but shook his head slowly. “You dear, brave,
foolish child!” he said. “I don't for one moment doubt your noble
purposes. But you don't get the man's point of view--naturally. What's
more you don't seem to get the woman's.”

“Can you see no other point of view than those?” she asked.

“There are no others,” he answered. “Come! come! my darling, don't add
this new difficulty to what we've got to carry! I know you have a hard
time of it at home. Some day, please God, you shall have an easier
one! And I'm having a hard time too--I don't deny it. But you are the
greatest joy and comfort I have, dear--you know that. If you go away--it
will be harder and slower and longer--that's all. I shall have you to
worry about too. Let somebody else do the gold-mine, dear--you stay here
and comfort your Mother as long as you can--and me. How can I get along
without you?”

He tried to put his arm around her again, but she drew back. “Dear,”
 she said. “If I deliberately do what I think is right--against your
wishes--what will you do?”

“Do?” The laughed bitterly. “What can I do? I'm tied by the leg here--I
can't go after you. I've nothing to pull you out of a scrape with if you
get in one. I couldn't do anything but--stand it.”

“And if I go ahead, and do what you don't like--and make
you--suffer--would you--would you rather be free?” Her voice was very
low and shaken, but he heard her well enough.

“Free of you? Free of _you_?” He caught her and held her and kissed her
over and over.

“You are mine!” he said. “You have given yourself to me! You cannot
leave me. Neither of us is free--ever again.” But she struggled away
from him.

“Both of us are free--to do what we think right, _always_ Ross! I
wouldn't try to stop you if you thought it was your duty to go to the
North Pole!” She held him a little way off. “Let me tell you, dear. Sit
down--let me tell you all about it.” But he wouldn't sit down.

“I don't think I want to know the details,” he said. “It doesn't much
matter what you're going to do--if you really go away. I can't stop
you--I see that. If you think this thing is your 'duty' you'll do it if
it kills us all--and you too! If you have to go--I shall do nothing--can
do nothing--but wait till you come back to me! Whatever happens,
darling--no matter how you fail--don't ever be afraid to come back to
me.”

He folded his arms now--did not attempt to hold her--gave her the
freedom she asked and promised her the love she had almost feared to
lose--and her whole carefully constructed plan seemed like a child's
sand castle for a moment; her heroic decision the wildest folly.

He was not even looking at her; she saw his strong, clean-cut profile
dark against the moonlit house, a settled patience in its lines. Duty!
Here was duty, surely, with tenderest happiness. She was leaning toward
him--her hand was seeking his, when she heard through the fragrant
silence a sound from her mother's room--the faint creak of her light
rocking chair. She could not sleep--she was sitting up with her trouble,
bearing it quietly as she had so many others.

The quiet everyday tragedy of that distasteful life--the slow withering
away of youth and hope and ambition into a gray waste of ineffectual
submissive labor--not only of her life, but of thousands upon thousands
like her--it all rose up like a flood in the girl's hot young heart.

Ross had turned to her--was holding out his arms to her. “You won't go,
my darling!” he said.

“I am going Wednesday on the 7.10,” said Diantha.




CHAPTER IV. A CRYING NEED


   “Lovest thou me?” said the Fair Ladye;
    And the Lover he said, “Yea!”
    “Then climb this tree--for my sake,” said she,
    “And climb it every day!”
    So from dawn till dark he abrazed the bark
    And wore his clothes away;
   Till, “What has this tree to do with thee?”
     The Lover at last did say.


It was a poor dinner. Cold in the first place, because Isabel would wait
to thoroughly wash her long artistic hands; and put on another dress.
She hated the smell of cooking in her garments; hated it worse on her
white fingers; and now to look at the graceful erect figure, the
round throat with the silver necklace about it, the soft smooth
hair, silver-filletted, the negative beauty of the dove-colored gown,
specially designed for home evenings, one would never dream she had set
the table so well--and cooked the steak so abominably.


Isabel was never a cook. In the many servantless gaps of domestic life
in Orchardina, there was always a strained atmosphere in the Porne
household.

“Dear,” said Mr. Porne, “might I petition to have the steak less cooked?
I know you don't like to do it, so why not shorten the process?”

“I'm sorry,” she answered, “I always forget about the steak from one
time to the next.”

“Yet we've had it three times this week, my dear.”

“I thought you liked it better than anything,” she with marked
gentleness. “I'll get you other things--oftener.”

“It's a shame you should have this to do, Isabel. I never meant you
should cook for me. Indeed I didn't dream you cared so little about it.”

“And I never dreamed you cared so much about it,” she replied, still
with repression. “I'm not complaining, am I? I'm only sorry you should
be disappointed in me.”

“It's not _you,_ dear girl! You're all right! It's just this everlasting
bother. Can't you get _anybody_ that will stay?”

“I can't seem to get anybody on any terms, so far. I'm going again,
to-morrow. Cheer up, dear--the baby keeps well--that's the main thing.”

He sat on the rose-bowered porch and smoked while she cleared the table.
At first he had tried to help her on these occasions, but their methods
were dissimilar and she frankly told him she preferred to do it alone.

So she slipped off the silk and put on the gingham again, washed the
dishes with the labored accuracy of a trained mind doing unfamiliar
work, made the bread, redressed at last, and joined him about nine
o'clock.

“It's too late to go anywhere, I suppose?” he ventured.

“Yes--and I'm too tired. Besides--we can't leave Eddie alone.”

“O yes--I forget. Of course we can't.”

His hand stole out to take hers. “I _am_ sorry, dear. It's awfully rough
on you women out here. How do they all stand it?”

“Most of them stand it much better than I do, Ned. You see they don't
want to be doing anything else.”

“Yes. That's the mischief of it!” he agreed; and she looked at him in
the clear moonlight, wondering exactly what he thought the mischief was.

“Shall we go in and read a bit?” he offered; but she thought not.

“I'm too tired, I'm afraid. And Eddie'll wake up as soon as we begin.”

So they sat awhile enjoying the soft silence, and the rich flower scents
about them, till Eddie did wake presently, and Isabel went upstairs.

She slept little that night, lying quite still, listening to her
husband's regular breathing so near her, and the lighter sound from the
crib. “I am a very happy woman,” she told herself resolutely; but there
was no outpouring sense of love and joy. She knew she was happy, but by
no means felt it. So she stared at the moon shadows and thought it over.

She had planned the little house herself, with such love, such hope,
such tender happy care! Not her first work, which won high praise in the
school in Paris, not the prize-winning plan for the library, now gracing
Orchardina's prettiest square, was as dear to her as this most womanly
task--the making of a home.

It was the library success which brought her here, fresh from her
foreign studies, and Orchardina accepted with western cordiality the
youth and beauty of the young architect, though a bit surprised at first
that “I. H. Wright” was an Isabel. In her further work of overseeing
the construction of that library, she had met Edgar Porne, one of
the numerous eager young real estate men of that region, who showed a
liberal enthusiasm for the general capacity of women in the professions,
and a much warmer feeling for the personal attractions of this one.

Together they chose the lot on pepper-shaded Inez Avenue; together they
watched the rising of the concrete walls and planned the garden walks
and seats, and the tiny precious pool in the far corner. He was so
sympathetic! so admiring! He took as much pride in the big “drawing
room” on the third floor as she did herself. “Architecture is such fine
work to do at home!” they had both agreed. “Here you have your north
light--your big table--plenty of room for work! You will grow famouser
and famouser,” he had lovingly insisted. And she had answered, “I fear I
shall be too contented, dear, to want to be famous.”

That was only some year and a-half ago,--but Isabel, lying there by
her sleeping husband and sleeping child, was stark awake and only by
assertion happy. She was thinking, persistently, of dust. She loved a
delicate cleanliness. Her art was a precise one, her studio a workshop
of white paper and fine pointed hard pencils, her painting the
mechanical perfection of an even wash of color. And she saw, through
the floors and walls and the darkness, the dust in the little shaded
parlor--two days' dust at least, and Orchardina is very dusty!--dust in
the dining-room gathered since yesterday--the dust in the kitchen--she
would not count time there, and the dust--here she counted it
inexorably--the dust of eight days in her great, light workroom
upstairs. Eight days since she had found time to go up there.

Lying there, wide-eyed and motionless, she stood outside in thought and
looked at the house--as she used to look at it with him, before they
were married. Then, it had roused every blessed hope and dream of wedded
joy--it seemed a casket of uncounted treasures. Now, in this dreary
mood, it seemed not only a mere workshop, but one of alien tasks,
continuous, impossible, like those set for the Imprisoned Princess
by bad fairies in the old tales. In thought she entered the
well-proportioned door--the Gate of Happiness--and a musty smell greeted
her--she had forgotten to throw out those flowers! She turned to the
parlor--no, the piano keys were gritty, one had to clean them twice a
day to keep that room as she liked it.

From room to room she flitted, in her mind, trying to recall the
exquisite things they meant to her when she had planned them; and each
one now opened glaring and blank, as a place to work in--and the work
undone.

“If I were an abler woman!” she breathed. And then her common sense and
common honesty made her reply to herself: “I am able enough--in my own
work! Nobody can do everything. I don't believe Edgar'd do it any better
than I do.--He don't have to!”--and then such a wave of bitterness rushed
over her that she was afraid, and reached out one hand to touch the
crib--the other to her husband.

He awakened instantly. “What is it, Dear?” he asked. “Too tired to
sleep, you poor darling? But you do love me a little, don't you?”

“O _yes_!” she answered. “I do. Of _course_ I do! I'm just tired, I
guess. Goodnight, Sweetheart.”


She was late in getting to sleep and late in waking.

When he finally sat down to the hurriedly spread breakfast-table, Mr.
Porne, long coffeeless, found it a bit difficult to keep his temper.
Isabel was a little stiff, bringing in dishes and cups, and paying no
attention to the sounds of wailing from above.

“Well if you won't I will!” burst forth the father at last, and ran
upstairs, returning presently with a fine boy of some eleven months, who
ceased to bawl in these familiar arms, and contented himself, for the
moment, with a teaspoon.

“Aren't you going to feed him?” asked Mr. Porne, with forced patience.

“It isn't time yet,” she announced wearily. “He has to have his bath
first.”

“Well,” with a patience evidently forced farther, “isn't it time to feed
me?”

“I'm very sorry,” she said. “The oatmeal is burned again. You'll have
to eat cornflakes. And--the cream is sour--the ice didn't come--or at
least, perhaps I was out when it came--and then I forgot it..... I had
to go to the employment agency in the morning!.... I'm sorry I'm so--so
incompetent.”

“So am I,” he commented drily. “Are there any crackers for instance? And
how about coffee?”

She brought the coffee, such as it was, and a can of condensed milk.
Also crackers, and fruit. She took the baby and sat silent.

“Shall I come home to lunch?” he asked.

“Perhaps you'd better not,” she replied coldly.

“Is there to be any dinner?”

“Dinner will be ready at six-thirty, if I have to get it myself.”

“If you have to get it yourself I'll allow for seven-thirty,” said he,
trying to be cheerful, though she seemed little pleased by it.
“Now don't take it so hard, Ellie. You are a first-class architect,
anyhow--one can't be everything. We'll get another girl in time. This is
just the common lot out here. All the women have the same trouble.”

“Most women seem better able to meet it!” she burst forth. “It's not
my trade! I'm willing to work, I like to work, but I can't _bear_
housework! I can't seem to learn it at all! And the servants will not do
it properly!”

“Perhaps they know your limitations, and take advantage of them! But
cheer up, dear. It's no killing matter. Order by phone, don't forget the
ice, and I'll try to get home early and help. Don't cry, dear girl, I
love you, even if you aren't a good cook! And you love me, don't you?”

He kissed her till she had to smile back at him and give him a loving
hug; but after he had gone, the gloom settled upon her spirits once
more. She bathed the baby, fed him, put him to sleep; and came back to
the table. The screen door had been left ajar and the house was buzzing
with flies, hot, with a week's accumulating disorder. The bread she
made last night in fear and trembling, was hanging fatly over the pans;
perhaps sour already. She clapped it into the oven and turned on the
heat.

Then she stood, undetermined, looking about that messy kitchen while the
big flies bumped and buzzed on the windows, settled on every dish, and
swung in giddy circles in the middle of the room. Turning swiftly she
shut the door on them. The dining-room was nearly as bad. She began
to put the cups and plates together for removal; but set her tray down
suddenly and went into the comparative coolness of the parlor, closing
the dining-room door behind her.

She was quite tired enough to cry after several nights of broken rest
and days of constant discomfort and irritation; but a sense of rising
anger kept the tears back.

“Of course I love him!” she said to herself aloud but softly,
remembering the baby, “And no doubt he loves me! I'm glad to be his
wife! I'm glad to be a mother to his child! I'm glad I married him!
But--_this_ is not what he offered! And it's not what I undertook! He
hasn't had to change his business!”

She marched up and down the scant space, and then stopped short and
laughed drily, continuing her smothered soliloquy.

“'Do you love me?' they ask, and, 'I will make you happy!' they say; and
you get married--and after that it's Housework!”

“They don't say, 'Will you be my Cook?' 'Will you be my Chamber maid?'
'Will you give up a good clean well-paid business that you love--that
has big hope and power and beauty in it--and come and keep house for
me?'”

“Love him? I'd be in Paris this minute if I didn't! What has 'love' to
do with dust and grease and flies!”

Then she did drop on the small sofa and cry tempestuously for a little
while; but soon arose, fiercely ashamed of her weakness, and faced the
day; thinking of the old lady who had so much to do she couldn't think
what to first--so she sat down and made a pincushion.

Then--where to begin!

“Eddie will sleep till half-past ten--if I'm lucky. It's now nearly
half-past nine,” she meditated aloud. “If I do the upstairs work I might
wake him. I mustn't forget the bread, the dishes, the parlor--O those
flies! Well--I'll clear the table first!”

Stepping softly, and handling the dishes with slow care, she cleaned the
breakfast table and darkened the dining-room, flapping out some of the
flies with a towel. Then she essayed the parlor, dusting and arranging
with undecided steps. “It _ought_ to be swept,” she admitted to herself;
“I can't do it--there isn't time. I'll make it dark--”

“I'd rather plan a dozen houses!” she fiercely muttered, as she fussed
about. “Yes--I'd rather build 'em--than to keep one clean!”

Then were her hopes dashed by a rising wail from above. She sat quite
still awhile, hoping against hope that he would sleep again; but he
wouldn't. So she brought him down in full cry.

In her low chair by the window she held him and produced bright and
jingling objects from the tall workbasket that stood near by, sighing
again as she glanced at its accumulated mending.

Master Eddy grew calm and happy in her arms, but showed a growing
interest in the pleasing materials produced for his amusement, and a
desire for closer acquaintance. Then a penetrating odor filled the air,
and with a sudden “O dear!” she rose, put the baby on the sofa, and
started toward the kitchen.

At this moment the doorbell rang.

Mrs. Porne stopped in her tracks and looked at the door. It remained
opaque and immovable. She looked at the baby--who jiggled his spools and
crowed. Then she flew to the oven and dragged forth the bread, not much
burned after all. Then she opened the door.

A nice looking young woman stood before her, in a plain travelling suit,
holding a cheap dress-suit case in one hand and a denim “roll-bag” in
the other, who met her with a cheerful inquiring smile.

“Are you Mrs. Edgar Porne?” she asked.

“I am,” answered that lady, somewhat shortly, her hand on the doorknob,
her ear on the baby, her nose still remorsefully in the kitchen, her
eyes fixed sternly on her visitor the while; as she wondered whether it
was literature, cosmetics, or medicine.

She was about to add that she didn't want anything, when the young
lady produced a card from the Rev. Benjamin A. Miner, Mrs. Porne's
particularly revered minister, and stated that she had heard there was a
vacancy in her kitchen and she would like the place.

“Introducing Mrs. D. Bell, well known to friends of mine.”

“I don't know--” said Mrs. Porne, reading the card without in the least
grasping what it said. “I--”

Just then there was a dull falling sound followed by a sharp rising one,
and she rushed into the parlor without more words.

When she could hear and be heard again, she found Mrs. Bell seated
in the shadowy little hall, serene and cool. “I called on Mr. Miner
yesterday when I arrived,” said she, “with letters of introduction from
my former minister, told him what I wanted to do, and asked him if he
could suggest anyone in immediate need of help in this line. He said
he had called here recently, and believed you were looking for someone.
Here is the letter I showed him,” and she handed Mrs. Porne a most
friendly and appreciative recommendation of Miss D. Bell by a minister
in Jopalez, Inca Co., stating that the bearer was fully qualified to
do all kinds of housework, experienced, honest, kind, had worked seven
years in one place, and only left it hoping to do better in Southern
California.

Backed by her own pastor's approval this seemed to Mrs. Porne fully
sufficient. The look of the girl pleased her, though suspiciously
above her station in manner; service of any sort was scarce and high in
Orchardina, and she had been an agelong week without any. “When can you
come?” she asked.

“I can stop now if you like,” said the stranger. “This is my baggage.
But we must arrange terms first. If you like to try me I will come this
week from noon to-day to noon next Friday, for seven dollars, and then
if you are satisfied with my work we can make further arrangements. I do
not do laundry work, of course, and don't undertake to have any care of
the baby.”

“I take care of my baby myself!” said Mrs. Porne, thinking the new girl
was presuming, though her manner was most gently respectful. But a week
was not long, she was well recommended, and the immediate pressure
in that kitchen where the harvest was so ripe and the laborers so
few--“Well--you may try the week,” she said. “I'll show you your room.
And what is your name?”

“Miss Bell.”




CHAPTER V.

     When the fig growns on the thistle,
     And the silk purse on the sow;
     When one swallow brings the summer,
     And blue moons on her brow!!!!!

     Then we may look for strength and skill,
     Experience, good health, good will,
     Art and science well combined,
     Honest soul and able mind,
     Servants built upon this plan,
     One to wait on every man,
     Patiently from youth to age,--
     For less than a street cleaner's wage!

     When the parson's gay on Mondays,
     When we meet a month of Sundays,
     We may look for them and find them--
     But Not Now!


When young Mrs. Weatherstone swept her trailing crepe from the
automobile to her friend's door, it was opened by a quick, soft-footed
maid with a pleasant face, who showed her into a parlor, not only cool
and flower-lit, but having that fresh smell that tells of new-washed
floors.

Mrs. Porne came flying down to meet her, with such a look of rest and
comfort as roused instant notice.

“Why, Belle! I haven't seen you look so bright in ever so long. It must
be the new maid!”

“That's it--she's 'Bell' too--'Miss Bell' if you please!”

The visitor looked puzzled. “Is she a--a friend?” she ventured, not sure
of her ground.

“I should say she was! A friend in need! Sit here by the window,
Viva--and I'll tell you all about it--as far as it goes.”

She gaily recounted her climax of confusion and weariness, and the
sudden appearance of this ministering angel. “She arrived at about
quarter of ten. I engaged her inside of five minutes. She was into a
gingham gown and at work by ten o'clock!”

“What promptness! And I suppose there was plenty to do!”

Mrs. Porne laughed unblushingly. “There was enough for ten women it
seemed to me! Let's see--it's about five now--seven hours. We have nine
rooms, besides the halls and stairs, and my shop. She hasn't touched
that yet. But the house is clean--_clean_! Smell it!”

She took her guest out into the hall, through the library and
dining-room, upstairs where the pleasant bedrooms stretched open and
orderly.

“She said that if I didn't mind she'd give it a superficial general
cleaning today and be more thorough later!”

Mrs. Weatherstone looked about her with a rather languid interest. “I'm
very glad for you, Belle, dear--but--what an endless nuisance it all
is--don't you think so?”

“Nuisance! It's slow death! to me at least,” Mrs. Porne answered. “But
I don't see why you should mind. I thought Madam Weatherstone ran
that--palace, of yours, and you didn't have any trouble at all.”

“Oh yes, she runs it. I couldn't get along with her at all if she
didn't. That's her life. It was my mother's too. Always fussing and
fussing. Their houses on their backs--like snails!”

“Don't see why, with ten (or is it fifteen?) servants.”

“Its twenty, I think. But my dear Belle, if you imagine that when you
have twenty servants you have neither work nor care--come and try it
awhile, that's all!”

“Not for a millionaire baby's ransom!” answered Isabel promptly.

“Give me my drawing tools and plans and I'm happy--but this
business”--she swept a white hand wearily about--“it's not my work,
that's all.”

“But you _enjoy_ it, don't you--I mean having nice things?” asked her
friend.

“Of course I enjoy it, but so does Edgar. Can't a woman enjoy her home,
just as a man does, without running the shop? I enjoy ocean travel, but
I don't want to be either a captain or a common sailor!”

Mrs. Weatherstone smiled, a little sadly. “You're lucky, you have
other interests,” she said. “How about our bungalow? have you got any
farther?”

Mrs. Porne flushed. “I'm sorry, Viva. You ought to have given it to
someone else. I haven't gone into that workroom for eight solid days. No
help, and the baby, you know. And I was always dog-tired.”

“That's all right, dear, there's no very great rush. You can get at it
now, can't you--with this other Belle to the fore?”

“She's not Belle, bless you--she's 'Miss Bell.' It's her last name.”

Mrs. Weatherstone smiled her faint smile. “Well--why not? Like a
seamstress, I suppose.”

“Exactly.” That's what she said. “If this labor was as important as that
of seamstress or governess why not the same courtesy--Oh she's a most
superior _and_ opinionated young person, I can see that.”

“I like her looks,” admitted Mrs. Weatherstone, “but can't we look over
those plans again; there's something I wanted to suggest.” And they went
up to the big room on the third floor.

In her shop and at her work Isabel Porne was a different woman. She
was eager and yet calm; full of ideas and ideals, yet with a practical
knowledge of details that made her houses dear to the souls of women.

She pointed out in the new drawings the practical advantages of kitchen
and pantry; the simple but thorough ventilation, the deep closets, till
her friend fairly laughed at her. “And you say you're not domestic!”

“I'm a domestic architect, if you like,” said Isabel; “but not a
domestic servant.--I'll remember what you say about those windows--it's
a good idea,” and she made a careful note of Mrs. Weatherstone's
suggestion.

That lady pushed the plans away from her, and went to the many cushioned
lounge in the wide west window, where she sat so long silent that Isabel
followed at last and took her hand.

“Did you love him so much?” she asked softly.

“Who?” was the surprising answer.

“Why--Mr. Weatherstone,” said Mrs. Porne.

“No--not very much. But he was something.”

Isabel was puzzled. “I knew you so well in school,” she said, “and
that gay year in Paris. You were always a dear, submissive quiet little
thing--but not like this. What's happened Viva?”

“Nothing that anybody can help,” said her friend. “Nothing that matters.
What does matter, anyway? Fuss and fuss and fuss. Dress and entertain.
Travel till you're tired, and rest till you're crazy! Then--when a real
thing happens--there's all this!” and she lifted her black draperies
disdainfully. “And mourning notepaper and cards and servant's
livery--and all the things you mustn't do!”

Isabel put an arm around her. “Don't mind, dear--you'll get over
this--you are young enough yet--the world is full of things to do!”

But Mrs. Weatherstone only smiled her faint smile again. “I loved
another man, first,” she said. “A real one. He died. He never cared
for me at all. I cared for nothing else--nothing in life. That's why
I married Martin Weatherstone--not for his old millions--but he really
cared--and I was sorry for him. Now he's dead. And I'm wearing this--and
still mourning for the other one.”

Isabel held her hand, stroked it softly, laid it against her cheek.

“Oh, I'll feel differently in time, perhaps!” said her visitor.

“Maybe if you took hold of the house--if you ran things
yourself,”--ventured Mrs. Porne.

Mrs. Weatherstone laughed. “And turn out the old lady? You don't know
her. Why she managed her son till he ran away from her--and after he got
so rich and imported her from Philadelphia to rule over Orchardina in
general and his household in particular, she managed that poor little
first wife of his into her grave, and that wretched boy--he's the
only person that manages her! She's utterly spoiled him--that was his
father's constant grief. No, no--let her run the house--she thinks she
owns it.”

“She's fond of you, isn't she?” asked Mrs. Porne.

“O I guess so--if I let her have her own way. And she certainly saves me
a great deal of trouble. Speaking of trouble, there they are--she said
she'd stop for me.”

At the gate puffed the big car, a person in livery rang the bell, and
Mrs. Weatherstone kissed her friend warmly, and passed like a heavy
shadow along the rose-bordered path. In the tonneau sat a massive old
lady in sober silks, with a set impassive countenance, severely correct
in every feature, and young Mat Weatherstone, sulky because he had to
ride with his grandmother now and then. He was not a nice young man.

*****

Diantha found it hard to write her home letters, especially to Ross. She
could not tell them of all she meant to do; and she must tell them of
this part of it, at once, before they heard of it through others.

To leave home--to leave school-teaching, to leave love--and “go out to
service” did not seem a step up, that was certain. But she set her red
lips tighter and wrote the letters; wrote them and mailed them that
evening, tired though she was.

Three letters came back quickly.

Her mother's answer was affectionate, patient, and trustful, though not
understanding.

Her sister's was as unpleasant as she had expected.

“The _idea!_” wrote Mrs. Susie. “A girl with a good home to live in and
another to look forward to--and able to earn money _respectably!_ to
go out and work like a common Irish girl! Why Gerald is so mortified he
can't face his friends--and I'm as ashamed as I can be! My own sister!
You must be _crazy_--simply _crazy!_”

It was hard on them. Diantha had faced her own difficulties bravely
enough; and sympathized keenly with her mother, and with Ross; but she
had not quite visualized the mortification of her relatives. She found
tears in her eyes over her mother's letter. Her sister's made her both
sorry and angry--a most disagreeable feeling--as when you step on the
cat on the stairs. Ross's letter she held some time without opening.

She was in her little upstairs room in the evening. She had swept,
scoured, scalded and carbolized it, and the hospitally smell was now
giving way to the soft richness of the outer air. The “hoo! hoo!” of the
little mourning owl came to her ears through the whispering night, and
large moths beat noiselessly against the window screen. She kissed the
letter again, held it tightly to her heart for a moment, and opened it.

“Dearest: I have your letter with its--somewhat surprising--news. It is
a comfort to know where you are, that you are settled and in no danger.

“I can readily imagine that this is but the preliminary to something
else, as you say so repeatedly; and I can understand also that you are
too wise to tell me all you mean to be beforehand.

“I will be perfectly frank with you, Dear.

“In the first place I love you. I shall love you always, whatever you
do. But I will not disguise from you that this whole business seems to
me unutterably foolish and wrong.

“I suppose you expect by some mysterious process to “develope” and
“elevate” this housework business; and to make money. I should not love
you any better if you made a million--and I would not take money from
you--you know that, I hope. If in the years we must wait before we can
marry, you are happier away from me--working in strange kitchens--or
offices--that is your affair.

“I shall not argue nor plead with you, Dear Girl; I know you think you
are doing right; and I have no right, nor power, to prevent you. But
if my wish were right and power, you would be here to-night, under the
shadow of the acacia boughs--in my arms!

“Any time you feel like coming back you will be welcome, Dear.

“Yours, Ross.”

“Any time she felt like coming back?

Diantha slipped down in a little heap by the bed, her face on the
letter--her arms spread wide. The letter grew wetter and wetter, and her
shoulders shook from time to time.

But the hands were tight-clenched, and if you had been near enough you
might have heard a dogged repetition, monotonous as a Tibetan prayer
mill: “It is right. It is right. It is right.” And then. “Help
me--please! I need it.” Diantha was not “gifted in prayer.”


When Mr. Porne came home that night he found the wifely smile which is
supposed to greet all returning husbands quite genuinely in evidence. “O
Edgar!” cried she in a triumphant whisper, “I've got such a nice
girl! She's just as neat and quick; you've no idea the work she's done
today--it looks like another place already. But if things look queer
at dinner don't notice it--for I've just given her her head. I was so
tired, and baby bothered so, and she said that perhaps she could
manage all by herself if I was willing to risk it, so I took baby for a
car-ride and have only just got back. And I _think_ the dinner's going
to be lovely!”

It was lovely. The dining-room was cool and flyless. The table was set
with an assured touch. A few of Orchardina's ever ready roses in a glass
bowl gave an air of intended beauty Mrs. Porne had had no time for.

The food was well-cooked and well-served, and the attendance showed an
intelligent appreciation of when people want things and how they want
them.

Mrs. Porne quite glowed with exultation, but her husband gently
suggested that the newness of the broom was visibly uppermost, and that
such palpable perfections were probably accompanied by some drawbacks.
But he liked her looks, he admitted, and the cooking would cover a
multitude of sins.

On this they rested, while the week went by. It was a full week, and
a short one. Mrs. Porne, making hay while the sun shone, caught up a
little in her sewing and made some conscience-tormenting calls.

When Thursday night came around she was simply running over with
information to give her husband.

“Such a talk as I have had with Miss Bell! She is so queer! But she's
nice too, and it's all reasonable enough, what she says. You know she's
studied this thing all out, and she knows about it--statistics and
things. I was astonished till I found she used to teach school. Just
think of it! And to be willing to work out! She certainly does her work
beautiful, but--it doesn't seem like having a servant at all. I feel as
if I--boarded with her!”

“Why she seemed to me very modest and unpresuming,” put in Mr. Porne.

“O yes, she never presumes. But I mean the capable way she manages--I
don't have to tell her one thing, nor to oversee, nor criticize. I spoke
of it and she said, 'If I didn't understand the business I should have
no right to undertake it.”

“That's a new point of view, isn't it?” asked her husband. “Don't they
usually make you teach them their trade and charge for the privilege?”

“Yes, of course they do. But then she does have her disadvantages--as
you said.”

“Does she? What are they?”

“Why she's so--rigid. I'll read you her--I don't know what to call it.
She's written out a definite proposition as to her staying with us, and
I want you to study it, it's the queerest thing I ever saw.”

The document was somewhat novel. A clear statement of the hours of labor
required in the position, the quality and amount of the different kinds
of work; the terms on which she was willing to undertake it, and all
prefaced by a few remarks on the status of household labor which made
Mr. Porne open his eyes.

Thus Miss Bell; “The ordinary rate for labor in this state, unskilled
labor of the ordinary sort, is $2.00 a day. This is in return for
the simplest exertion of brute force, under constant supervision and
direction, and involving no serious risk to the employer.”

“Household labor calls for the practice of several distinct crafts,
and, to be properly done, requires thorough training and experience.
Its performer is not only in a position of confidence, as necessarily
entrusted with the care of the employer's goods and with knowledge of
the most intimate family relations; but the work itself, in maintaining
the life and health of the members of the household, is of most vital
importance.

“In consideration of existing economic conditions, however, I am willing
to undertake these intricate and responsible duties for a seven day week
at less wages than are given the street-digger, for $1.50 a day.”

“Good gracious, my dear!” said Mr. Porne, laying down the paper, “This
young woman does appreciate her business! And we're to be let off easy
at $45.00 a month, are we.”

“And feel under obligations at that!” answered his wife. “But you read
ahead. It is most instructive. We shall have to ask her to read a paper
for the Club!”

“'In further consideration of the conditions of the time, I am willing
to accept part payment in board and lodging instead of cash. Such
accommodations as are usually offered with this position may be rated at
$17.00 a month.'”

“O come now, don't we board her any better than that?”

“That's what I thought, and I asked her about it, and she explained that
she could get a room as good for a dollar and a-half a week--she had
actually made inquiries in this very town! And she could; really a
better room, better furnished, that is, and service with it. You know
I've always meant to get the girl's room fixed more prettily, but
usually they don't seem to mind. And as to food--you see she knows all
about the cost of things, and the materials she consumes are really not
more than two dollars and a half a week, if they are that. She even made
some figures for me to prove it--see.”

Mr. Porne had to laugh.

“Breakfast. Coffee at thirty-five cents per pound, one cup, one cent.
Oatmeal at fourteen cents per package, one bowl, one cent. Bread at five
cents per loaf, two slices, one-half cent. Butter at forty cents per
pound, one piece, one and a-half cents. Oranges at thirty cents per
dozen, one, three cents. Milk at eight cents per quart, on oatmeal, one
cent. Meat or fish or egg, average five cents. Total--thirteen cents.”

“There! And she showed me dinner and lunch the same way. I had no idea
food, just the material, cost so little. It's the labor, she says that
makes it cost even in the cheapest restaurant.”

“I see,” said Mr. Porne. “And in the case of the domestic servant we
furnish the materials and she furnishes the labor. She cooks her own
food and waits on herself--naturally it wouldn't come high. What does
she make it?”

     'Food, average per day.............$0.35
     Room, $1.50 per w'k, ave. per day.....22
                                         -----
                                          .57

     Total, per month... $17.10

     $1.50 per day, per month... $45.00

“'Remaining payable in cash, $28.00.' Do I still live! But my dear
Ellie, that's only what an ordinary first-class cook charges, out here,
without all this fuss!”

“I know it, Ned, but you know we think it's awful, and we're always
telling about their getting their board and lodging clear--as if we
gave'em that out of the goodness of our hearts!”

“Exactly, my dear. And this amazing and arithmetical young woman makes
us feel as if we were giving her wampum instead of money--mere primitive
barter of ancient days in return for her twentieth century services! How
does she do her work--that's the main question.”

“I never saw anyone do it better, or quicker, or easier. That is, I
thought it was easy till she brought me this paper. Just read about her
work, and you'll feel as if we ought to pay her all your salary.”

Mr. Porne read:

“Labor performed, average ten hours a day, as follows: Preparation of
food materials, care of fires, cooking, table service, and cleaning of
dishes, utensils, towels, stove, etc., per meal--breakfast two hours,
dinner three hours, supper or lunch one hour--six hours per day for food
service. Daily chamber work and dusting, etc., one and one-half hours
per day. Weekly cleaning for house of nine rooms, with halls, stairs,
closets, porches, steps, walks, etc., sweeping, dusting, washing
windows, mopping, scouring, etc., averaging two hours per day. Door
service, waiting on tradesmen, and extras one-half hour per day. Total
ten hours per day.”

“That sounds well. Does it take that much time every day?”

“Yes, indeed! It would take me twenty!” she answered. “You know the week
I was here alone I never did half she does. Of course I had Baby, but
then I didn't do the things. I guess when it doesn't take so long they
just don't do what ought to be done. For she is quick, awfully quick
about her work. And she's thorough. I suppose it ought to be done that
way--but I never had one before.”

“She keeps mighty fresh and bright-looking after these herculean
labors.”

“Yes, but then she rests! Her ten hours are from six-thirty a.m.,
when she goes into the kitchen as regularly as a cuckoo clock, to
eight-thirty p.m. when she is all through and her kitchen looks like
a--well it's as clean and orderly as if no one was ever in it.”

“Ten hours--that's fourteen.”

“I know it, but she takes out four. She claims time to eat her meals.”

“Preposterous!”

“Half an hour apiece, and half an hour in the morning to rest--and two
in the afternoon. Anyway she is out, two hours every afternoon, riding
in the electric cars!”

“That don't look like a very hard job. Her day laborer doesn't get two
hours off every afternoon to take excursions into the country!”

“No, I know that, but he doesn't begin so early, nor stop so late. She
does her square ten hours work, and I suppose one has a right to time
off.”

“You seem dubious about that, my dear.”

“Yes, that's just where it's awkward. I'm used to girls being in all the
time, excepting their day out. You see I can't leave baby, nor always
take him--and it interferes with my freedom afternoons.”

“Well--can't you arrange with her somehow?”

“See if you can. She says she will only give ten hours of time for a
dollar and a half a day--tisn't but fifteen cents an hour--I have to
pay a woman twenty that comes in. And if she is to give up her chance
of sunlight and fresh air she wants me to pay her extra--by the hour. Or
she says, if I prefer, she would take four hours every other day--and so
be at home half the time. I said it was difficult to arrange--with baby,
and she was very sympathetic and nice, but she won't alter her plans.”

“Let her go, and get a less exacting servant.”

“But--she does her work so well! And it saves a lot, really. She knows
all about marketing and things, and plans the meals so as to have things
lap, and it's a comfort to have her in the house and feel so safe and
sure everything will be done right.”

“Well, it's your province, my dear. I don't profess to advise. But I
assure you I appreciate the table, and the cleanness of everything, and
the rested look in your eyes, dear girl!”

She slipped her hand into his affectionately. “It does make a
difference,” she said. “I _could_ get a girl for $20.00 and save nearly
$2.60 a week--but you know what they are!”

“I do indeed,” he admitted fervently. “It's worth the money to have this
thing done so well. I think she's right about the wages. Better keep
her.”

“O--she'll only agree to stay six months even at this rate!”

“Well--keep her six months and be thankful. I thought she was too good
to last!”

They looked over the offered contract again. It closed with:

“This agreement to hold for six months from date if mutually
satisfactory. In case of disagreement two weeks' notice is to be given
on either side, or two weeks' wages if preferred by the employer.” It
was dated, and signed “Miss D. C. Bell.”

And with inward amusement and great display of penmanship they added
“Mrs. Isabel J. Porne,” and the contract was made.




CHAPTER VI. THE CYNOSURE.


    It's a singular thing that the commonest place
     Is the hardest to properly fill;
    That the labor imposed on a full half the race
     Is so seldom performed with good will--
     To say nothing of knowledge or skill!

    What we ask of all women, we stare at in one,
     And tribute of wonderment bring;
    If this task of the million is once fitly done
     We all hold our hands up and sing!
     It's really a singular thing!


Isabel Porne was a cautious woman, and made no acclaim over her new
acquisition until its value was proven. Her husband also bided his
time; and when congratulated on his improved appearance and air of
contentment, merely vouchsafed that his wife had a new girl who could
cook.

To himself he boasted that he had a new wife who could love--so cheerful
and gay grew Mrs. Porne in the changed atmosphere of her home.

“It is remarkable, Edgar,” she said, dilating repeatedly on the peculiar
quality of their good fortune. “It's not only good cooking, and good
waiting, and a clean house--cleaner than I ever saw one before; and it's
not only the quietness, and regularity and economy--why the bills have
gone down more than a third!”

“Yes--even I noticed that,” he agreed.

“But what I enjoy the most is the _atmosphere,_” she continued. “When I
have to do the work, the house is a perfect nightmare to me!” She leaned
forward from her low stool, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her
hands, and regarded him intently.

“Edgar! You know I love you. And I love my baby--I'm no unfeeling
monster! But I can tell you frankly that if I'd had any idea of what
housework was like I'd never have given up architecture to try it.”

“Lucky for me you hadn't!” said he fondly. “I know it's been hard
for you, little girl. I never meant that you should give up
architecture--that's a business a woman could carry on at home I
thought, the designing part anyway. There's your 'drawing-room' and all
your things--”

“Yes,” she said, with reminiscent bitterness, “there they are--and there
they might have stayed, untouched--if Miss Bell hadn't come!”

“Makes you call her “Miss Bell” all the time, does she?”

Mrs. Porne laughed. “Yes. I hated it at first, but she asked if I could
give her any real reason why the cook should be called by her first
name more than the seamstress or governess. I tried to say that it was
shorter, but she smiled and said that in this case it was longer!--Her
name is Diantha--I've seen it on letters. And it is one syllable longer.
Anyhow I've got used to Miss Bell now.”

“She gets letters often?”

“Yes--very often--from Topolaya where she came from. I'm afraid she's
engaged.” Mrs. Porne sighed ruefully.

“I don't doubt it!” said Mr. Porne. “That would account for her six
months' arrangement! Well, my dear--make hay while the sun shines!”

“I do!” she boasted. “Whole stacks! I've had a seamstress in, and got
all my clothes in order and the baby's. We've had lot of dinner-parties
and teas as you know--all my “social obligations” are cleared off! We've
had your mother for a visit, and mine's coming now--and I wasn't
afraid to have either of them! There's no fault to be found with my
housekeeping now! And there are two things better than that--yes,
three.”

“The best thing is to see you look so young and handsome and happy
again,” said her husband, with a kiss.

“Yes--that's one. Another is that now I feel so easy and lighthearted
I can love you and baby--as--as I _do!_ Only when I'm tired and
discouraged I can't put my hand on it somehow.”

He nodded sympathetically. “I know, dear,” he said. “I feel that way
myself--sometimes. What's the other?”

“Why that's best of all!” she cried triumphantly. “I can Work again!
When Baby's asleep I get hours at a time; and even when he's awake I've
fixed a place where he can play--and I can draw and plan--just as I used
to--_better_ than I used to!”

“And that is even more to you than loving?” he asked in a quiet
inquiring voice.

“It's more because it means _both!_” She leaned to him, glowing, “Don't
you see? First I had the work and loved it. Then you came--and I loved
you--better! Then Baby came and I loved him--best? I don't know--you and
baby are all one somehow.”

There was a brief interim and then she drew back, blushing richly.
“Now stop--I want to explain. When the housework got to be such a
nightmare--and I looked forward to a whole lifetime of it and _no_
improvement; then I just _ached_ for my work--and couldn't do it! And
then--why sometimes dear, I just wanted to run away! Actually! From
_both_ of you!--you see, I spent five years studying--I was a _real_
architect--and it did hurt to see it go. And now--O now I've got It and
You too, darling! _And_ the Baby!--O I'm so happy!”

“Thanks to the Providential Miss Bell,” said he. “If she'll stay I'll
pay her anything!”

The months went by.

Peace, order, comfort, cleanliness and economy reigned in the Porne
household, and the lady of the house blossomed into richer beauty and
happiness; her contentment marred only by a sense of flying time.

Miss Bell fulfilled her carefully specified engagement to the letter;
rested her peaceful hour in the morning; walked and rode in the
afternoon; familiarized herself with the length and breadth of the
town; and visited continuously among the servants of the neighborhood,
establishing a large and friendly acquaintance. If she wore rubber
gloves about the rough work, she paid for them herself; and she washed
and ironed her simple and pretty costumes herself--with the result that
they stayed pretty for surprising periods.

She wrote letters long and loving, to Ross daily; to her mother twice a
week; and by the help of her sister's authority succeeded in maintaining
a fairly competent servant in her deserted place.

“Father was bound he wouldn't,” her sister wrote her; “but I stood right
up to him, I can now I'm married!--and Gerald too--that he'd no right to
take it out of mother even if he was mad with you. He made a fuss about
your paying for the girl--but that was only showing off--_he_ couldn't
pay for her just now--that's certain. And she does very well--a
good strong girl, and quite devoted to mother.” And then she scolded
furiously about her sister's “working out.”

Diantha knew just how hard it was for her mother. She had faced all
sides of the question before deciding.

“Your mother misses you badly, of course,” Ross wrote her. “I go in
as often as I can and cheer her up a bit. It's not just the work--she
misses you. By the way--so do I.” He expressed his views on her new
employment.

Diantha used to cry over her letters quite often. But she would put them
away, dry her eyes, and work on at the plans she was maturing, with grim
courage. “It's hard on them now,” she would say to herself. “Its hard
on me--some. But we'll all be better off because of it, and not only
us--but everybody!”

Meanwhile the happy and unhappy households of the fair town buzzed in
comment and grew green with envy.

In social circles and church circles and club circles, as also in
domestic circles, it was noised abroad that Mrs. Edgar Porne had “solved
the servant question.” News of this marvel of efficiency and propriety
was discussed in every household, and not only so but in barber-shops
and other downtown meeting places mentioned. Servants gathered it at
dinner-tables; and Diantha, much amused, regathered it from her new
friends among the servants.


“Does she keep on just the same?” asked little Mrs. Ree of Mrs. Porne in
an awed whisper.

“Just the same if not better. I don't even order the meals now, unless I
want something especial. She keeps a calendar of what we've had to eat,
and what belongs to the time of year, prices and things. When I used
to ask her to suggest (one does, you know: it is so hard to think up a
variety!), she'd always be ready with an idea, or remind me that we had
had so and so two days before, till I asked her if she'd like to order,
and she said she'd be willing to try, and now I just sit down to the
table without knowing what's going to be there.”

“But I should think that would interfere with your sense of freedom,”
 said Mrs. Ellen A Dankshire, “A woman should be mistress of her own
household.”

“Why I am! I order whenever I specially want anything. But she really
does it more--more scientifically. She has made a study of it. And the
bills are very much lower.”

“Well, I think you are the luckiest woman alive!” sighed Mrs. Ree. “I
wish I had her!”

Many a woman wished she had her, and some, calling when they knew Mrs.
Porne was out, or descending into their own kitchens of an evening
when the strange Miss Bell was visiting “the help,” made flattering
propositions to her to come to them. She was perfectly polite and
agreeable in manner, but refused all blandishments.

“What are you getting at your present place--if I may ask?” loftily
inquired the great Mrs. Thaddler, ponderous and beaded.

“There is surely no objection to your asking, madam,” she replied
politely. “Mrs. Porne will not mind telling you, I am sure.”

“Hm!” said the patronizing visitor, regarding her through her lorgnette.
“Very good. Whatever it is I'll double it. When can you come?”

“My engagement with Mrs. Porne is for six months,” Diantha answered,
“and I do not wish to close with anyone else until that time is up.
Thank you for your offer just the same.”

“Peculiarly offensive young person!” said Mrs. Thaddler to her husband.
“Looks to me like one of these literary imposters. Mrs. Porne will
probably appear in the magazines before long.”

Mr. Thaddler instantly conceived a liking for the young person, “sight
unseen.”

Diantha acquired quite a list of offers; places open to her as soon
as she was free; at prices from her present seven dollars up to the
proposed doubling.

“Fourteen dollars a week and found!--that's not so bad,” she meditated.
“That would mean over $650 clear in a year! It's a wonder to me girls
don't try it long enough to get a start at something else. With even two
or three hundred ahead--and an outfit--it would be easier to make good
in a store or any other way. Well--I have other fish to fry!”

So she pursued her way; and, with Mrs. Porne's permission--held a sort
of girl's club in her spotless kitchen one evening a week during the
last three months of her engagement. It was a “Study and Amusement
Club.” She gave them short and interesting lessons in arithmetic, in
simple dressmaking, in easy and thorough methods of housework. She gave
them lists of books, referred them to articles in magazines, insidiously
taught them to use the Public Library.

They played pleasant games in the second hour, and grew well acquainted.
To the eye or ear of any casual visitor it was the simplest and most
natural affair, calculated to “elevate labor” and to make home happy.

Diantha studied and observed. They brought her their poor confidences,
painfully similar. Always poverty--or they would not be there. Always
ignorance, or they would not stay there. Then either incompetence in the
work, or inability to hold their little earnings--or both; and further
the Tale of the Other Side--the exactions and restrictions of the
untrained mistresses they served; cases of withheld wages; cases of
endless requirements; cases of most arbitrary interference with their
receiving friends and “followers,” or going out; and cases, common
enough to be horrible, of insult they could only escape by leaving.

“It's no wages, of course--and no recommendation, when you leave like
that--but what else can a girl do, if she's honest?”

So Diantha learned, made friends and laid broad foundations.

The excellence of her cocking was known to many, thanks to the weekly
“entertainments.” No one refused. No one regretted acceptance. Never had
Mrs. Porne enjoyed such a sense of social importance.

All the people she ever knew called on her afresh, and people she
never knew called on her even more freshly. Not that she was directly
responsible for it. She had not triumphed cruelly over her less happy
friends; nor had she cried aloud on the street corners concerning her
good fortune. It was not her fault, nor, in truth anyone's. But in a
community where the “servant question” is even more vexed than in
the country at large, where the local product is quite unequal to the
demand, and where distance makes importation an expensive matter, the
fact of one woman's having, as it appeared, settled this vexed question,
was enough to give her prominence.

Mrs. Ellen A. Dankshire, President of the Orchardina Home and Culture
Club, took up the matter seriously.

“Now Mrs. Porne,” said she, settling herself vigorously into a
comfortable chair, “I just want to talk the matter over with you, with a
view to the club. We do not know how long this will last--”

“Don't speak of it!” said Mrs. Porne.

“--and it behooves us to study the facts while we have them.”

“So much is involved!” said little Mrs. Ree, the Corresponding
Secretary, lifting her pale earnest face with the perplexed fine lines
in it. “We are all so truly convinced of the sacredness of the home
duties!”

“Well, what do you want me to do?” asked their hostess.

“We must have that remarkable young woman address our club!” Mrs.
Dankshire announced. “It is one case in a thousand, and must be
studied!”

“So noble of her!” said Mrs. Ree. “You say she was really a
school-teacher? Mrs. Thaddler has put it about that she is one of these
dreadful writing persons--in disguise!”

“O no,” said Mrs. Porne. “She is perfectly straightforward about it, and
had the best of recommendations. She was a teacher, but it didn't agree
with her health, I believe.”

“Perhaps there is a story to it!” Mrs. Ree advanced; but Mrs. Dankshire
disagreed with her flatly.

“The young woman has a theory, I believe, and she is working it out. I
respect her for it. Now what we want to ask you, Mrs. Porne, is this: do
you think it would make any trouble for you--in the household relations,
you know--if we ask her to read a paper to the Club? Of course we do not
wish to interfere, but it is a remarkable opportunity--very. You know
the fine work Miss Lucy Salmon has done on this subject; and Miss
Frances Kellor. You know how little data we have, and how great, how
serious, a question it is daily becoming! Now here is a young woman of
brains and culture who has apparently grappled with the question; her
example and influence must not be lost! We must hear from her. The
public must know of this.”

“Such an ennobling example!” murmured Mrs. Ree. “It might lead numbers
of other school-teachers to see the higher side of the home duties!”

“Furthermore,” pursued Mrs. Dankshire, “this has occured to me. Would it
not be well to have our ladies bring with them to the meeting the more
intelligent of their servants; that they might hear and see the--the
dignity of household labor--so ably set forth?

“Isn't it--wouldn't that be a--an almost dangerous experiment?” urged
Mrs. Ree; her high narrow forehead fairly creped with little wrinkles:
“She might--say something, you know, that they might--take advantage
of!”

“Nonsense, my dear!” replied Mrs. Dankshire. She was very fond of Mrs.
Ree, but had small respect for her judgment. “What could she say? Look
at what she does! And how beautifully--how perfectly--she does it! I
would wager now--_may_ I try an experiment Mrs. Porne?” and she stood
up, taking out her handkerchief.

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Porne, “with pleasure! You won't find any!”

Mrs. Dankshire climbed heavily upon a carefully selected chair and
passed her large clean plain-hemmed handkerchief across the top of a
picture.

“I knew it!” she proclaimed proudly from her eminence, and showed the
cloth still white. “That,” she continued in ponderous descent, “that is
Knowledge, Ability and Conscience!”

“I don't see how she gets the time!” breathed Mrs. Ree, shaking her head
in awed amazement, and reflecting that she would not dare trust Mrs.
Dankshire's handkerchief on her picture tops.

“We must have her address the Club,” the president repeated. “It will do
worlds of good. Let me see--a paper on--we might say 'On the True Nature
of Domestic Industry.' How does that strike you, Mrs. Ree?”

“Admirable!” said Mrs. Ree. “So strong! so succinct.”

“That certainly covers the subject,” said Mrs. Porne. “Why don't you ask
her?”

“We will. We have come for that purpose. But we felt it right to ask you
about it first,” said Mrs. Dankshire.

“Why I have no control over Miss Bell's movements, outside of working
hours,” answered Mrs. Porne. “And I don't see that it would make any
difference to our relations. She is a very self-poised young woman,
but extremely easy to get along with. And I'm sure she could write a
splendid paper. You'd better ask her, I think.”

“Would you call her in?” asked Mrs. Dankshire, “or shall we go out to
the kitchen?”

“Come right out; I'd like you to see how beautifully she keeps
everything.”

The kitchen was as clean as the parlor; and as prettily arranged. Miss
Bell was making her preparation for lunch, and stopped to receive the
visitors with a serenely civil air--as of a country store-keeper.

“I am very glad to meet you, Miss Bell, very glad indeed,” said Mrs.
Dankshire, shaking hands with her warmly. “We have at heard so much of
your beautiful work here, and we admire your attitude! Now would you be
willing to give a paper--or a talk--to our club, the Home and Culture
Club, some Wednesday, on The True Nature of Domestic Industry?”

Mrs. Ree took Miss Bell's hand with something of the air of a Boston
maiden accosting a saint from Hindoostan. “If you only would!” she said.
“I am sure it would shed light on this great subject!”

Miss Bell smiled at them both and looked at Mrs. Porne inquiringly.

“I should be delighted to have you do it,” said her employer. “I know it
would be very useful.”

“Is there any date set?” asked Miss Bell.

“Any Wednesday after February,” said Mrs. Dankshire.

“Well--I will come on the first Wednesday in April. If anything should
happen to prevent I will let you know in good season, and if you should
wish to postpone or alter the program--should think better of the
idea--just send me word. I shall not mind in the least.”

They went away quite jubilant, Miss Bell's acceptance was announced
officially at the next club-meeting, and the Home and Culture Club felt
that it was fulfilling its mission.




CHAPTER VII. HERESY AND SCHISM.


     You may talk about religion with a free and open mind,
      For ten dollars you may criticize a judge;
     You may discuss in politics the newest thing you find,
      And open scientific truth to all the deaf and blind,
     But there's one place where the brain must never budge!

     CHORUS.

     Oh, the Home is Utterly Perfect!
     And all its works within!
      To say a word about it--
      To criticize or doubt it--
      To seek to mend or move it--
      To venture to improve it--
     Is The Unpardonable Sin!

     --“Old Song.”


Mr. Porne took an afternoon off and came with his wife to hear their
former housemaid lecture. As many other men as were able did the same.
All the members not bedridden were present, and nearly all the guests
they had invited.

So many were the acceptances that a downtown hall had been taken; the
floor was more than filled, and in the gallery sat a block of servant
girls, more gorgeous in array than the ladies below whispering excitedly
among themselves. The platform recalled a “tournament of roses,” and,
sternly important among all that fragrant loveliness, sat Mrs. Dankshire
in “the chair” flanked by Miss Torbus, the Recording Secretary, Miss
Massing, the Treasurer, and Mrs. Ree, tremulous with importance in her
official position. All these ladies wore an air of high emprise, even
more intense than that with which they usually essayed their public
duties. They were richly dressed, except Miss Torbus, who came as near
it as she could.

At the side, and somewhat in the rear of the President, on a chair quite
different from “the chair,” discreetly gowned and of a bafflingly
serene demeanor, sat Miss Bell. All eyes were upon her--even some opera
glasses.

“She's a good-looker anyhow,” was one masculine opinion.

“She's a peach,” was another, “Tell you--the chap that gets her is well
heeled!” said a third.

The ladies bent their hats toward one another and conferred in flowing
whispers; and in the gallery eager confidences were exchanged, with
giggles.

On the small table before Mrs. Dankshire, shaded by a magnificent bunch
of roses, lay that core and crux of all parliamentry dignity, the gavel;
an instrument no self-respecting chairwoman may be without; yet which
she still approaches with respectful uncertainty.

In spite of its large size and high social standing, the Orchardina Home
and Culture Club contained some elements of unrest, and when the yearly
election of officers came round there was always need for careful work
in practical politics to keep the reins of government in the hands of
“the right people.”

Mrs. Thaddler, conscious of her New York millions, and Madam
Weatherstone, conscious of her Philadelphia lineage, with Mrs. Johnston
A. Marrow (“one of the Boston Marrows!” was awesomely whispered of her),
were the heads of what might be called “the conservative party” in this
small parliament; while Miss Miranda L. Eagerson, describing herself as
'a journalist,' who held her place in local society largely by virtue of
the tacit dread of what she might do if offended--led the more radical
element.

Most of the members were quite content to follow the lead of the solidly
established ladies of Orchard Avenue; especially as this leadership
consisted mainly in the pursuance of a masterly inactivity. When wealth
and aristocracy combine with that common inertia which we dignify as
“conservatism” they exert a powerful influence in the great art of
sitting still.

Nevertheless there were many alert and conscientious women in this large
membership, and when Miss Eagerson held the floor, and urged upon the
club some active assistance in the march of events, it needed all Mrs.
Dankshire's generalship to keep them content with marking time.

On this auspicious occasion, however, both sides were agreed in interest
and approval. Here was a subject appealing to every woman present, and
every man but such few as merely “boarded”; even they had memories and
hopes concerning this question.

Solemnly rose Mrs. Dankshire, her full silks rustling about her, and
let one clear tap of the gavel fall into the sea of soft whispering and
guttural murmurs.

In the silence that followed she uttered the momentous announcements:
“The meeting will please come to order,” “We will now hear the reading
of the minutes of the last meeting,” and so on most conscientiously
through officer's reports and committees reports to “new business.”

Perhaps it is their more frequent practice of religious rites, perhaps
their devout acceptance of social rulings and the dictates of fashion,
perhaps the lifelong reiterance of small duties at home, or all these
things together, which makes women so seriously letter-perfect in
parliamentry usage. But these stately ceremonies were ended in course of
time, and Mrs. Dankshire rose again, even more solemn than before, and
came forward majestically.

“Members---and guests,” she said impressively, “this is an occasion
which brings pride to the heart of every member of the Home and Culture
Club. As our name implies, this Club is formed to serve the interests
of The Home--those interests which stand first, I trust, in every human
heart.”

A telling pause, and the light patter of gloved hands.

“Its second purpose,” pursued the speaker, with that measured delivery
which showed that her custom, as one member put it, was to “first write
and then commit,” “is to promote the cause of Culture in this community.
Our aim is Culture in the broadest sense, not only in the curricula of
institutions of learning, not only in those spreading branches of study
and research which tempts us on from height to height”--(“proof of
arboreal ancestry that,” Miss Eagerson confided to a friend, whose
choked giggle attracted condemning eyes)--“but in the more intimate
fields of daily experience.”

“Most of us, however widely interested in the higher education, are
still--and find in this our highest honor--wives and mothers.” These
novel titles called forth another round of applause.

“As such,” continued Mrs. Dankshire, “we all recognize the
difficult--the well-nigh insuperable problems of the”--she glanced at
the gallery now paying awed attention--“domestic question.”

“We know how on the one hand our homes yawn unattended”--(“I yawn
while I'm attending--eh?” one gentleman in the rear suggested to
his neighbor)--“while on the other the ranks of mercenary labor are
overcrowded. Why is it that while the peace and beauty, the security and
comfort, of a good home, with easy labor and high pay, are open to every
young woman, whose circumstances oblige her to toil for her living, she
blindly refuses these true advantages and loses her health and too often
what is far more precious!--in the din and tumult of the factory, or the
dangerous exposure of the public counter.”

Madam Weatherstone was much impressed at this point, and beat her black
fan upon her black glove emphatically. Mrs. Thaddler also nodded; which
meant a good deal from her. The applause was most gratifying to the
speaker, who continued:

“Fortunately for the world there are some women yet who appreciate the
true values of life.” A faint blush crept slowly up the face of Diantha,
but her expression was unchanged. Whoso had met and managed a roomful of
merciless children can easily face a woman's club.

“We have with us on this occasion one, as we my say, our equal in birth
and breeding,”--Madam Weatherstone here looked painfully shocked as also
did the Boston Marrow; possibly Mrs. Dankshire, whose parents were Iowa
farmers, was not unmindful of this, but she went on smoothly, “and
whose first employment was the honored task of the teacher; who has
deliberately cast her lot with the domestic worker, and brought
her trained intelligence to bear upon the solution of this great
question--The True Nature of Domestic Service. In the interests of this
problem she has consented to address us--I take pleasure in introducing
Miss Diantha Bell.”

Diantha rose calmly, stepped forward, bowed to the President and
officers, and to the audience. She stood quietly for a moment, regarding
the faces before her, and produced a typewritten paper. It was clear,
short, and to some minds convincing.

She set forth that the term “domestic industry” did not define certain
kinds of labor, but a stage of labor; that all labor was originally
domestic; but that most kinds had now become social, as with weaving and
spinning, for instance, for centuries confined to the home and done by
women only; now done in mills by men and women; that this process
of socialization has now been taken from the home almost all the
manufactures--as of wine, beer, soap, candles, pickles and other
specialties, and part of the laundry work; that the other processes
of cleaning are also being socialized, as by the vacuum cleaners, the
professional window-washers, rug cleaners, and similar professional
workers; and that even in the preparation of food many kinds are now
specialized, as by the baker and confectioner. That in service itself
we were now able to hire by the hour or day skilled workers necessarily
above the level of the “general.”

A growing rustle of disapproval began to make itself felt, which
increased as she went on to explain how the position of the housemaid is
a survival of the ancient status of woman slavery, the family with the
male head and the group of servile women.

“The keynote of all our difficulty in this relation is that we demand
celibacy of our domestic servants,” said Diantha.

A murmur arose at this statement, but she continued calmly:

“Since it is natural for women to marry, the result is that our domestic
servants consist of a constantly changing series of young girls,
apprentices, as it were; and the complicated and important duties of the
household cannot be fully mastered by such hands.”

The audience disapproved somewhat of this, but more of what followed.
She showed (Mrs. Porne nodding her head amusedly), that so far from
being highly paid and easy labor, house service was exacting and
responsible, involving a high degree of skill as well as moral
character, and that it was paid less than ordinary unskilled labor, part
of this payment being primitive barter.

Then, as whispers and sporadic little spurts of angry talk increased,
the clear quiet voice went on to state that this last matter, the
position of a strange young girl in our homes, was of itself a source of
much of the difficulty of the situation.

“We speak of giving them the safety and shelter of the home,”--here
Diantha grew solemn;--“So far from sharing our homes, she gives up her
own, and has none of ours, but the poorest of our food and a cramped
lodging; she has neither the freedom nor the privileges of a home; and
as to shelter and safety--the domestic worker, owing to her peculiarly
defenceless position, furnishes a terrible percentage of the
unfortunate.”

A shocked silence met this statement.

“In England shop-workers complain of the old custom of 'sleeping
in'--their employers furnishing them with lodging as part payment;
this also is a survival of the old apprentice method. With us, only the
domestic servant is held to this antiquated position.”

Regardless of the chill displeasure about her she cheerfully pursued:

“Let us now consider the economic side of the question. 'Domestic
economy' is a favorite phrase. As a matter of fact our method of
domestic service is inordinately wasteful. Even where the wife does all
the housework, without pay, we still waste labor to an enormous extent,
requiring one whole woman to wait upon each man. If the man hires one
or more servants, the wastes increase. If one hundred men undertake
some common business, they do not divide in two halves, each man having
another man to serve him--fifty productive laborers, and fifty cooks.
Two or three cooks could provide for the whole group; to use fifty is to
waste 47 per cent. of the labor.

“But our waste of labor is as nothing to our waste of money. For, say
twenty families, we have twenty kitchens with all their furnishings,
twenty stoves with all their fuel; twenty cooks with all their wages;
in cash and barter combined we pay about ten dollars a week for our
cooks--$200 a week to pay for the cooking for twenty families, for about
a hundred persons!

“Three expert cooks, one at $20 a week and two at $15 would save to
those twenty families $150 a week and give them better food. The cost
of kitchen furnishings and fuel, could be reduced by nine-tenths; and
beyond all that comes our incredible waste in individual purchasing.
What twenty families spend on individual patronage of small retailers,
could be reduced by more than half if bought by competent persons in
wholesale quantities. Moreover, our whole food supply would rise in
quality as well as lower in price if it was bought by experts.

“To what does all this lead?” asked Diantha pleasantly.

Nobody said anything, but the visible attitude of the house seemed to
say that it led straight to perdition.

“The solution for which so many are looking is no new scheme of any
sort; and in particular it is not that oft repeated fore-doomed failure
called 'co-operative housekeeping'.”

At this a wave of relief spread perceptibly. The irritation roused by
those preposterous figures and accusations was somewhat allayed. Hope
was relit in darkened countenances.

“The inefficiency of a dozen tottering households is not removed by
combining them,” said Diantha. This was of dubious import. “Why should
we expect a group of families to “keep house” expertly and economically
together, when they are driven into companionship by the fact that none
of them can do it alone.”

Again an uncertain reception.

“Every family is a distinct unit,” the girl continued. “Its needs are
separate and should be met separately. The separate house and garden
should belong to each family, the freedom and group privacy of the
common milkman, by a common baker, by a common cooking and a common
cleaning establishment. We are rapidly approaching an improved system of
living in which the private home will no more want a cookshop on the
premises than a blacksmith's shop or soap-factory. The necessary work of
the kitchenless house will be done by the hour, with skilled labor; and
we shall order our food cooked instead of raw. This will give to the
employees a respectable well-paid profession, with their own homes and
families; and to the employers a saving of about two-thirds of the
expense of living, as well as an end of all our difficulties with the
servant question. That is the way to elevate--to enoble domestic
service. It must cease to be domestic service--and become world
service.”

Suddenly and quietly she sat down.

Miss Eagerson was on her feet. So were others.

“Madam President! Madam President!” resounded from several points at
once. Madam Weatherstone--Mrs. Thaddler--no! yes--they really were both
on their feet. Applause was going on--irregularly--soon dropped. Only,
from the group in the gallery it was whole-hearted and consistent.

Mrs. Dankshire, who had been growing red and redder as the paper
advanced, who had conferred in alarmed whispers with Mrs. Ree, and Miss
Massing, who had even been seen to extend her hand to the gavel and
finger it threateningly, now rose, somewhat precipitately, and came
forward.

“Order, please! You will please keep order. You have heard the--we will
now--the meeting is now open for discussion, Mrs. Thaddler!” And she sat
down. She meant to have said Madam Weatherstone, by Mrs. Thaddler was
more aggressive.

“I wish to say,” said that much beaded lady in a loud voice, “that I
was against this--unfortunate experiment--from the first. And I trust it
will never be repeated!” She sat down.

Two tight little dimples flickered for an instant about the corners of
Diantha's mouth.

“Madam Weatherstone?” said the President, placatingly.

Madam Weatherstone arose, rather sulkily, and looked about her. An
agitated assembly met her eye, buzzing universally each to each.

“Order!” said Mrs. Dankshire, “ORDER, please!” and rapped three times
with the gavel.

“I have attended many meetings, in many clubs, in many states,” said
Madam Weatherstone, “and have heard much that was foolish, and some
things that were dangerous. But I will say that never in the course of
all my experience have I heard anything so foolish and so dangerous, as
this. I trust that the--doubtless well meant--attempt to throw light on
this subject--from the wrong quarter--has been a lesson to us all. No
club could survive more than one such lamentable mistake!” And she sat
down, gathering her large satin wrap about her like a retiring Caesar.

“Madam President!” broke forth Miss Eagerson. “I was up first--and have
been standing ever since--”

“One moment, Miss Eagerson,” said Mrs. Dankshire superbly, “The Rev. Dr.
Eltwood.”

If Mrs. Dankshire supposed she was still further supporting the cause of
condemnation she made a painful mistake. The cloth and the fine bearing
of the young clergyman deceived her; and she forgot that he was said to
be “advanced” and was new to the place.

“Will you come to the platform, Dr. Eltwood?”

Dr. Eltwood came to the platform with the easy air of one to whom
platforms belonged by right.

“Ladies,” he began in tones of cordial good will, “both employer and
employed!--and gentlemen--whom I am delighted to see here to-day! I am
grateful for the opportunity so graciously extended to me”--he bowed
six feet of black broadcloth toward Mrs. Dankshire--“by your honored
President.

“And I am grateful for the opportunity previously enjoyed, of listening
to the most rational, practical, wise, true and hopeful words I have
ever heard on this subject. I trust there will be enough open-minded
women--and men--in Orchardina to make possible among us that higher
business development of a great art which has been so convincingly laid
before us. This club is deserving of all thanks from the community
for extending to so many the privilege of listening to our valued
fellow-citizen--Miss Bell.”

He bowed again--to Miss Bell--and to Mrs. Dankshire, and resumed his
seat, Miss Eagerson taking advantage of the dazed pause to occupy the
platform herself.

“Mr. Eltwood is right!” she said. “Miss Bell is right! This is the true
presentation of the subject, 'by one who knows.' Miss Bell has
pricked our pretty bubble so thoroughly that we don't know where
we're standing--but she knows! Housework is a business--like any other
business--I've always said so, and it's got to be done in a business
way. Now I for one--” but Miss Eagerson was rapped down by the
Presidential gavel; as Mrs. Thaddler, portentous and severe, stalked
forward.

“It is not my habit to make public speeches,” she began, “nor my desire;
but this is a time when prompt and decisive action needs to be taken.
This Club cannot afford to countenance any such farrago of mischievous
nonsense as we have heard to-day. I move you, Madam President, that
a resolution of condemnation be passed at once; and the meeting then
dismissed!”

She stalked back again, while Mrs. Marrow of Boston, in clear, cold
tones seconded the motion.

But another voice was heard--for the first time in that assembly--Mrs.
Weatherstone, the pretty, delicate widower daughter-in-law of Madam
Weatherstone, was on her feet with “Madam President! I wish to speak to
this motion.”

“Won't you come to the platform, Mrs. Weatherstone?” asked Mrs.
Dankshire graciously, and the little lady came, visibly trembling, but
holding her head high.

All sat silent, all expected--what was not forthcoming.

“I wish to protest, as a member of the Club, and as a woman, against the
gross discourtesy which has been offered to the guest and speaker of the
day. In answer to our invitation Miss Bell has given us a scholarly and
interesting paper, and I move that we extend her a vote of thanks.”

“I second the motion,” came from all quarters.

“There is another motion before the house,” from others.

Cries of “Madam President” arose everywhere, many speakers were on their
feet. Mrs. Dankshire tapped frantically with the little gavel, but Miss
Eagerson, by sheer vocal power, took and held the floor.

“I move that we take a vote on this question,” she cried in piercing
tones. “Let every woman who knows enough to appreciate Miss Bell's
paper--and has any sense of decency--stand up!”

Quite a large proportion of the audience stood up--very informally.
Those who did not, did not mean to acknowledge lack of intelligence and
sense of decency, but to express emphatic disapproval of Miss Eagerson,
Miss Bell and their views.

“I move you, Madam President,” cried Mrs. Thaddler, at the top of her
voice, “that every member who is guilty of such grossly unparlimentary
conduct be hereby dropped from this Club!”

“We hereby resign!” cried Miss Eagerson. “_We_ drop _you!_ We'll have
a New Woman's Club in Orchardina with some warmth in its heart and some
brains in its head--even if it hasn't as much money in its pocket!”

Amid stern rappings, hissings, cries of “Order--order,” and frantic
“Motions to adjourn” the meeting broke up; the club elements dissolving
and reforming into two bodies as by some swift chemical reaction.

Great was the rejoicing of the daily press; some amusement was felt,
though courteously suppressed by the men present, and by many not
present, when they heard of it.

Some ladies were so shocked and grieved as to withdraw from club-life
altogether. Others, in stern dignity, upheld the shaken standards of
Home and Culture; while the most conspicuous outcome of it all was the
immediate formation of the New Woman's Club of Orchardina.




CHAPTER VIII.


Behind the straight purple backs and smooth purple legs on the box
before them, Madam Weatherstone and Mrs. Weatherstone rolled home
silently, a silence of thunderous portent. Another purple person opened
the door for them, and when Madam Weatherstone said, “We will have tea
on the terrace,” it was brought them by a fourth.

“I was astonished at your attitude, Viva,” began the old lady, at
length. “Of course it was Mrs. Dankshire's fault in the first place, but
to encourage that,--outrageous person! How could you do it!”

Young Mrs. Weatherstone emptied her exquisite cup and set it down.

“A sudden access of courage, I suppose,” she said. “I was astonished at
myself.”

“I wholly disagree with you!” replied her mother-in-law. “Never in my
life have I heard such nonsense. Talk like that would be dangerous, if
it were not absurd! It would destroy the home! It would strike at the
roots of the family.”

Viva eyed her quietly, trying to bear in mind the weight of a tradition,
the habits of a lifetime, the effect of long years of uninterrupted
worship of household gods.

“It doesn't seem so to me,” she said slowly, “I was much interested and
impressed. She is evidently a young woman of knowledge and experience,
and put her case well. It has quite waked me up.”

“It has quite upset you!” was the reply. “You'll be ill after this, I am
sure. Hadn't you better go and lie down now? I'll have some dinner sent
to you.”

“Thank you,” said Viva, rising and walking to the edge of the broad
terrace. “You are very kind. No. I do not wish to lie down. I haven't
felt so thoroughly awake in--” she drew a pink cluster of oleander
against her cheek and thought a moment--“in several years.” There was a
new look about her certainly.

“Nervous excitement,” her mother-in-law replied. “You're not like
yourself at all to-night. You'll certainly be ill to-morrow!”

Viva turned at this and again astonished the old lady by serenely
kissing her. “Not at all!” she said gaily. “I'm going to be well
to-morrow. You will see!”

She went to her room, drew a chair to the wide west window with the far
off view and sat herself down to think. Diantha's assured poise,
her clear reasoning, her courage, her common sense; and something of
tenderness and consecration she discerned also, had touched deep chords
in this woman's nature. It was like the sound of far doors opening,
windows thrown up, the jingle of bridles and clatter of hoofs, keen
bugle notes. A sense of hope, of power, of new enthusiasm, rose in her.

Orchardina Society, eagerly observing “young Mrs. Weatherstone” from her
first appearance, had always classified her as “delicate.” Beside the
firm features and high color of the matron-in-office, this pale quiet
slender woman looked like a meek and transient visitor. But her white
forehead was broad under its soft-hanging eaves of hair, and her chin,
though lacking in prognathous prominence or bull-dog breadth, had a
certain depth which gave hope to the physiognomist.

She was strangely roused and stirred by the afternoon's events. “I'm
like that man in 'Phantastes',” she thought contemptuously, “who stayed
so long in that dungeon because it didn't occur to him to open the door!
Why don't I--?” she rose and walked slowly up and down, her hands behind
her. “I will!” she said at last.

Then she dressed for dinner, revolving in her mind certain suspicions
long suppressed, but now flaming out in clear conviction in the light
of Diantha's words. “Sleeping in, indeed!” she murmured to herself. “And
nobody doing anything!”

She looked herself in the eye in the long mirror. Her gown was an
impressive one, her hair coiled high, a gold band ringed it like a
crown. A clear red lit her checks.

She rang. Little Ilda, the newest maid, appeared, gazing at her in shy
admiration. Mrs. Weatherstone looked at her with new eyes. “Have you
been here long?” she asked. “What is your name?”

“No, ma'am,” said the child--she was scarce more. “Only a week and two
days. My name is Ilda.”

“Who engaged you?”

“Mrs. Halsey, ma'am.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Weatherstone, musing to herself, “and I engaged Mrs.
Halsey!” “Do you like it here?” she continued kindly.

“Oh yes, ma'am!” said Ilda. “That is--” she stopped, blushed, and
continued bravely. “I like to work for you, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Ilda. Will you ask Mrs. Halsey to come to me--at once,
please.”

Ilda went, more impressed than ever with the desirability of her new
place, and mistress.

As she was about to pass the door of Mr. Matthew Weatherstone, that
young gentleman stepped out and intercepted her. “Whither away so fast,
my dear?” he amiably inquired.

“Please let one pass, sir! I'm on an errand. Please, sir?”

“You must give me a kiss first!” said he--and since there seemed no
escape and she was in haste, she submitted. He took six--and she ran
away half crying.

Mrs. Halsey, little accustomed to take orders from her real mistress,
and resting comfortably in her room, had half a mind to send an excuse.

“I'm not dressed,” she said to the maid.

“Well she is!” replied Ilda, “dressed splendid. She said 'at once,
please.'”

“A pretty time o' day!” said the housekeeper with some asperity, hastily
buttoning her gown; and she presently appeared, somewhat heated, before
Mrs. Weatherstone.

That lady was sitting, cool and gracious, her long ivory paper-cutter
between the pages of a new magazine.

“In how short a time could you pack, Mrs. Halsey?” she inquired.

“Pack, ma'am? I'm not accustomed to doing packing. I'll send one of the
maids. Is it your things, ma'am?”

“No,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “It is yours I refer to. I wish you to
pack your things and leave the house--in an hour. One of the maids can
help you, if necessary. Anything you cannot take can be sent after you.
Here is a check for the following month's wages.”

Mrs. Halsey was nearly a head taller than her employer, a stout showy
woman, handsome enough, red-lipped, and with a moist and crafty eye.
This was so sudden a misadventure that she forgot her usual caution.
“You've no right to turn me off in a minute like this!” she burst forth.
“I'll leave it to Madam Weatherstone!”

“If you will look at the terms on which I engaged you, Mrs. Halsey, you
will find that a month's warning, or a month's wages, was specified.
Here are the wages--as to the warning, that has been given for some
months past!”

“By whom, Ma'am?”

“By yourself, Mrs. Halsey--I think you understand me. Oscar will take
your things as soon as they are ready.”

Mrs. Halsey met her steady eye a moment--saw more than she cared to
face--and left the room.

She took care, however, to carry some letters to Madam Weatherstone, and
meekly announced her discharge; also, by some coincidence, she met Mr.
Matthew in the hall upstairs, and weepingly confided her grievance to
him, meeting immediate consolation, both sentimental and practical.

When hurried servants were sent to find their young mistress they
reported that she must have gone out, and in truth she had; out on her
own roof, where she sat quite still, though shivering a little now and
then from the new excitement, until dinner time.

This meal, in the mind of Madam Weatherstone, was the crowning factor
of daily life; and, on state occasions, of social life. In her cosmogony
the central sun was a round mahogany table; all other details of
housekeeping revolved about it in varying orbits. To serve an endless
series of dignified delicious meals, notably dinners, was, in her eyes,
the chief end of woman; the most high purpose of the home.

Therefore, though angry and astounded, she appeared promptly when the
meal was announced; and when her daughter-in-law, serene and royally
attired, took her place as usual, no emotion was allowed to appear
before the purple footman who attended.

“I understood you were out, Viva,” she said politely.

“I was,” replied Viva, with equal decorum. “It is charming outside at
this time in the evening--don't you think so?”

Young Matthew was gloomy and irritable throughout the length and breadth
of the meal; and when they were left with their coffee in the drawing
room, he broke out, “What's this I hear about Mrs. Halsey being fired
without notice?”

“That is what I wish to know, Viva,” said the grandmother. “The poor
woman is greatly distressed. Is there not some mistake?”

“It's a damn shame,” said Matthew.

The younger lady glanced from one to the other, and wondered to see how
little she minded it. “The door was there all the time!” she thought
to herself, as she looked her stepson in the eye and said, “Hardly
drawing-room language, Matthew. Your grandmother is present!”

He stared at her in dumb amazement, so she went on, “No, there is no
mistake at all. I discharged Mrs. Halsey about an hour before dinner.
The terms of the engagement were a month's warning or a month's wages. I
gave her the wages.”

“But! but!” Madam Weatherstone was genuinely confused by this sudden
inexplicable, yet perfectly polite piece of what she still felt to be in
the nature of 'interference' and 'presumption.' “I have had no fault to
find with her.”

“I have, you see,” said her daughter-in-law smiling. “I found her
unsatisfactory and shall replace her with something better presently.
How about a little music, Matthew? Won't you start the victrolla?”

Matthew wouldn't. He was going out; went out with the word. Madam
Weatherstone didn't wish to hear it--had a headache--must go to her
room--went to her room forthwith. There was a tension in the atmosphere
that would have wrung tears from Viva Weatherstone a week ago, yes,
twenty-four hours ago.

As it was she rose to her feet, stretching herself to her full height,
and walked the length of the great empty room. She even laughed a
little. “It's open!” said she, and ordered the car. While waiting for it
she chatted with Mrs. Porne awhile over the all-convenient telephone.

*****

Diantha sat at her window, watching the big soft, brilliant moon behind
the eucalyptus trees. After the close of the strenuous meeting, she had
withdrawn from the crowd of excited women anxious to shake her hand
and engage her on the spot, had asked time to consider a number of good
opportunities offered, and had survived the cold and angry glances of
the now smaller but far more united Home and Culture Club. She declined
to talk to the reporters, and took refuge first in an open car.
This proved very unsatisfactory, owing to her sudden prominence. Two
persistent newspaper men swung themselves upon the car also and insisted
on addressing her.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, “I am not acquainted with you.”

They eagerly produced their cards--and said they were “newspaper men.”

“I see,” said Diantha, “But you are still men? And gentlemen, I suppose?
I am a woman, and I do not wish to talk with you.”

“Miss Bell Declines to Be Interviewed,” wrote the reporters, and
spent themselves on her personal appearance, being favorably impressed
thereby.

But Miss Bell got off at the next corner and took a short cut to the
house where she had rented a room. Reporters were waiting there, two
being women.

Diantha politely but firmly declined to see them and started for the
stairs; but they merely stood in front of her and asked questions. The
girl's blood surged to her cheeks; she smiled grimly, kept absolute
silence, brushed through them and went swiftly to her room, locking the
door after her.

The reporters described her appearance--unfavorably this time; and
they described the house--also unfavorably. They said that “A group of
adoring-eyed young men stood about the doorway as the flushed heroine of
the afternoon made her brusque entrance.” These adorers consisted of
the landlady's Johnny, aged thirteen, and two satellites of his, still
younger. They _did_ look at Diantha admiringly; and she _was_ a little
hurried in her entrance--truth must be maintained.

Too irritated and tired to go out for dinner, she ate an orange or two,
lay down awhile, and then eased her mind by writing a long letter to
Ross and telling him all about it. That is, she told him most of it,
all the pleasant things, all the funny things; leaving out about the
reporters, because she was too angry to be just, she told herself. She
wrote and wrote, becoming peaceful as the quiet moments passed, and
a sense grew upon her of the strong, lasting love that was waiting so
patiently.

“Dearest,” her swift pen flew along, “I really feel much encouraged.
An impression has been made. One or two men spoke to me afterward; the
young minister, who said such nice things; and one older man, who looked
prosperous and reliable. 'When you begin any such business as you have
outlined, you may count on me, Miss Bell,' he said, and gave me his
card. He's a lawyer--P. L. Wiscomb; nice man, I should think. Another
big, sheepish-looking man said, 'And me, Miss Bell.' His name is
Thaddler; his wife is very disagreeable. Some of the women are favorably
impressed, but the old-fashioned kind--my! 'If hate killed men, Brother
Lawrence!'--but it don't.”

She wrote herself into a good humor, and dwelt at considerable length
on the pleasant episode of the minister and young Mrs. Weatherstone's
remarks. “I liked her,” she wrote. “She's a nice woman--even if she is
rich.”

There was a knock at her door. “Lady to see you, Miss.”

“I cannot see anyone,” said Diantha; “you must excuse me.”

“Beg pardon, Miss, but it's not a reporter; it's--.” The landlady
stretched her lean neck around the door edge and whispered hoarsely,
“It's young Mrs. Weatherstone!”

Diantha rose to her feet, a little bewildered. “I'll be right down,” she
said. But a voice broke in from the hall, “I beg your pardon, Miss Bell,
but I took the liberty of coming up; may I come in?”

She came in, and the landlady perforce went out. Mrs. Weatherstone held
Diantha's hand warmly, and looked into her eyes. “I was a schoolmate of
Ellen Porne,” she told the girl. “We are dear friends still; and so I
feel that I know you better than you think. You have done beautiful work
for Mrs. Porne; now I want you to do to it for me. I need you.”

“Won't you sit down?” said Diantha.

“You, too,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “Now I want you to come to me--right
away. You have done me so much good already. I was just a New England
bred school teacher myself at first, so we're even that far. Then you
took a step up--and I took a step down.”

Diantha was a little slow in understanding the quick fervor of this new
friend; a trifle suspicious, even; being a cautious soul, and somewhat
overstrung, perhaps. Her visitor, bright-eyed and eager, went on. “I
gave up school teaching and married a fortune. You have given it up to
do a more needed work. I think you are wonderful. Now, I know this
seems queer to you, but I want to tell you about it. I feel sure you'll
understand. At home, Madam Weatherstone has had everything in charge for
years and years, and I've been too lazy or too weak, or too indifferent,
to do anything. I didn't care, somehow. All the machinery of living,
and no _living_--no good of it all! Yet there didn't seem to be
anything else to do. Now you have waked me all up--your paper this
afternoon--what Mr. Eltwood said--the way those poor, dull, blind women
took it. And yet I was just as dull and blind myself! Well, I begin to
see things now. I can't tell you all at once what a difference it has
made; but I have a very definite proposition to make to you. Will you
come and be my housekeeper, now--right away--at a hundred dollars a
month?”

Diantha opened her eyes wide and looked at the eager lady as if she
suspected her nervous balance.

“The other one got a thousand a year--you are worth more. Now, don't
decline, please. Let me tell you about it. I can see that you have plans
ahead, for this business; but it can't hurt you much to put them off
six months, say. Meantime, you could be practicing. Our place at Santa
Ulrica is almost as big as this one; there are lots of servants and
a great, weary maze of accounts to be kept, and it wouldn't be bad
practice for you--now, would it?”

Diantha's troubled eyes lit up. “No--you are right there,” she said. “If
I could do it!”

“You'll have to do just that sort of thing when you are running your
business, won't you?” her visitor went on. “And the summer's not a good
time to start a thing like that, is it?”

Diantha meditated. “No, I wasn't going to. I was going to start
somewhere--take a cottage, a dozen girls or so--and furnish labor by the
day to the other cottages.”

“Well, you might be able to run that on the side,” said Mrs.
Weatherstone. “And you could train my girls, get in new ones if you
like; it doesn't seem to me it would conflict. But to speak to you quite
frankly, Miss Bell, I want you in the house for my own sake. You do me
good.”

They discussed the matter for some time, Diantha objecting mainly to
the suddenness of it all. “I'm a slow thinker,” she said, “and this is
so--so attractive that I'm suspicious of it. I had the other thing all
planned--the girls practically engaged.”

“Where were you thinking of going?” asked Mrs. Weatherstone.

“To Santa Ulrica.”

“Exactly! Well, you shall have your cottage and our girls and give them
part time. Or--how many have you arranged with?”

“Only six have made definite engagements yet.”

“What kind?”

“Two laundresses, a cook and three second maids; all good ones.”

“Excellent! Now, I tell you what to do. I will engage all those girls.
I'm making a change at the house, for various reasons. You bring them to
me as soon as you like; but you I want at once. I wish you'd come home
with me to-night! Why don't you?”

Diantha's scanty baggage was all in sight. She looked around for an
excuse. Mrs. Weatherstone stood up laughing.

“Put the new address in the letter,” she said, mischievously, “and come
along!”

*****

And the purple chauffeur, his disapproving back ineffectual in the
darkness, rolled them home.




CHAPTER IX. “SLEEPING IN.”


     Men have marched in armies, fleets have borne them,
      Left their homes new countries to subdue;
     Young men seeking fortune wide have wandered--
      We have something new.

     Armies of young maidens cross our oceans;
      Leave their mother's love, their father's care;
     Maidens, young and helpless, widely wander,
      Burdens new to bear.

     Strange the land and language, laws and customs;
      Ignorant and all alone they come;
     Maidens young and helpless, serving strangers,
      Thus we keep the Home.

     When on earth was safety for young maidens
      Far from mother's love and father's care?
     We preserve The Home, and call it sacred--
      Burdens new they bear.


The sun had gone down on Madam Weatherstone's wrath, and risen to find
it unabated. With condensed disapprobation written on every well-cut
feature, she came to the coldly gleaming breakfast table.

That Mrs. Halsey was undoubtedly gone, she had to admit; yet so far
failed to find the exact words of reproof for a woman of independent
means discharging her own housekeeper when it pleased her.

Young Mathew unexpectedly appeared at breakfast, perhaps in anticipation
of a sort of Roman holiday in which his usually late and apologetic
stepmother would furnish the amusement. They were both surprised to find
her there before them, looking uncommonly fresh in crisp, sheer white,
with deep-toned violets in her belt.

She ate with every appearance of enjoyment, chatting amiably about the
lovely morning--the flowers, the garden and the gardeners; her efforts
ill seconded, however.

“Shall I attend to the orders this morning?” asked Madam Weatherstone
with an air of noble patience.

“O no, thank you!” replied Viva. “I have engaged a new housekeeper.”

“A new housekeeper! When?” The old lady was shaken by this inconceivable
promptness.

“Last night,” said her daughter-in-law, looking calmly across the table,
her color rising a little.

“And when is she coming, if I may ask?”

“She has come. I have been with her an hour already this morning.”

Young Mathew smiled. This was amusing, though not what he had expected.
“How extremely alert and businesslike!” he said lazily. “It's becoming
to you--to get up early!”

“You can't have got much of a person--at a minute's notice,” said his
grandmother. “Or perhaps you have been planning this for some time?”

“No,” said Viva. “I have wanted to get rid of Mrs. Halsey for some time,
but the new one I found yesterday.”

“What's her name?” inquired Mathew.

“Bell--Miss Diantha Bell,” she answered, looking as calm as if
announcing the day of the week, but inwardly dreading the result
somewhat. Like most of such terrors it was overestimated.

There was a little pause--rather an intense little pause; and
then--“Isn't that the girl who set 'em all by the ears yesterday?”
 asked the young man, pointing to the morning paper. “They say she's a
good-looker.”

Madam Weatherstone rose from the table in some agitation. “I must say
I am very sorry, Viva, that you should have been so--precipitate! This
young woman cannot be competent to manage a house like this--to say
nothing of her scandalous ideas. Mrs. Halsey was--to my mind--perfectly
satisfactory. I shall miss her very much.” She swept out with an
unanswerable air.

“So shall I,” muttered Mat, under his breath, as he strolled after her;
“unless the new one's equally amiable.”

Viva Weatherstone watched them go, and stood awhile looking after the
well-built, well-dressed, well-mannered but far from well-behaved young
man.

“I don't _know_,” she said to herself, “but I do feel--think--imagine--a
good deal. I'm sure I hope not! Anyway--it's new life to have that girl
in the house.”

That girl had undertaken what she described to Ross as “a large order--a
very large order.”

“It's the hardest thing I ever undertook,” she wrote him, “but I think
I can do it; and it will be a tremendous help. Mrs. Weatherstone's a
brick--a perfect brick! She seems to have been very unhappy--for ever
so long--and to have submitted to her domineering old mother-in-law just
because she didn't care enough to resist. Now she's got waked up all
of a sudden--she says it was my paper at the club--more likely my awful
example, I think! and she fired her old housekeeper--I don't know what
for--and rushed me in.

“So here I am. The salary is good, the work is excellent training, and I
guess I can hold the place. But the old lady is a terror, and the young
man--how you would despise that Johnny!”

The home letters she now received were rather amusing. Ross, sternly
patient, saw little difference in her position. “I hope you will enjoy
your new work,” he wrote, “but personally I should prefer that you did
not--so you might give it up and come home sooner. I miss you as you
can well imagine. Even when you were here life was hard enough--but
now!!!!!!

“I had a half offer for the store the other day, but it fell through. If
I could sell that incubus and put the money into a ranch--fruit, hens,
anything--then we could all live on it; more cheaply, I think; and I
could find time for some research work I have in mind. You remember that
guinea-pig experiment I want so to try?”

Diantha remembered and smiled sadly. She was not much interested in
guinea-pigs and their potential capacities, but she was interested in
her lover and his happiness. “Ranch,” she said thoughtfully; “that's not
a bad idea.”

Her mother wrote the same patient loving letters, perfunctorily hopeful.
Her father wrote none--“A woman's business--this letter-writin',” he
always held; and George, after one scornful upbraiding, had “washed his
hands of her” with some sense of relief. He didn't like to write letters
either.

But Susie kept up a lively correspondence. She was attached to her
sister, as to all her immediate relatives and surroundings; and while
she utterly disapproved of Diantha's undertaking, a sense of sisterly
duty, to say nothing of affection, prompted her to many letters. It did
not, however, always make these agreeable reading.

“Mother's pretty well, and the girl she's got now does nicely--that
first one turned out to be a failure. Father's as cranky as ever. We are
all well here and the baby (this was a brand new baby Diantha had not
seen) is just a Darling! You ought to be here, you unnatural Aunt!
Gerald doesn't ever speak of you--but I do just the same. You hear from
the Wardens, of course. Mrs. Warden's got neuralgia or something; keeps
them all busy. They are much excited over this new place of yours--you
ought to hear them go on! It appears that Madam Weatherstone is a
connection of theirs--one of the F. F. V's, I guess, and they think
she's something wonderful. And to have _you_ working _there!_--well,
you can just see how they'd feel; and I don't blame them. It's no
use arguing with you--but I should think you'd have enough of this
disgraceful foolishness by this time and come home!”

Diantha tried to be very philosophic over her home letters; but they
were far from stimulating. “It's no use arguing with poor Susie!” she
decided. “Susie thinks the sun rises and sets between kitchen, nursery
and parlor!

“Mother can't see the good of it yet, but she will later--Mother's all
right.

“I'm awfully sorry the Wardens feel so--and make Ross unhappy--but of
course I knew they would. It can't be helped. It's just a question of
time and work.”

And she went to work.

*****

Mrs. Porne called on her friend most promptly, with a natural eagerness
and curiosity.

“How does it work? Do you like her as much as you thought? Do tell me
about it, Viva. You look like another woman already!”

“I certainly feel like one,” Viva answered. “I've seen slaves in
housework, and I've seen what we fondly call 'Queens' in housework; but
I never saw brains in it before.”

Mrs. Porne sighed. “Isn't it just wonderful--the way she does things!
Dear me! We do miss her! She trained that Swede for us--and she does
pretty well--but not like 'Miss Bell'! I wish there were a hundred of
her!”

“If there were a hundred thousand she wouldn't go round!” answered Mrs.
Weatherstone. “How selfish we are! _That_ is the kind of woman we all
want in our homes--and fuss because we can't have them.”

“Edgar says he quite agrees with her views,” Mrs. Porne went on.
“Skilled labor by the day--food sent in--. He says if she cooked it
he wouldn't care if it came all the way from Alaska! She certainly can
cook! I wish she'd set up her business--the sooner the better.”

Mrs. Weatherstone nodded her head firmly. “She will. She's planning.
This was really an interruption--her coming here, but I think it will
be a help--she's not had experience in large management before, but
she takes hold splendidly. She's found a dozen 'leaks' in our household
already.”

“Mrs. Thaddler's simply furious, I hear,” said the visitor. “Mrs. Ree
was in this morning and told me all about it. Poor Mrs. Ree! The home is
church and state to her; that paper of Miss Bell's she regards as simple
blasphemy.”

They both laughed as that stormy meeting rose before them.

“I was so proud of you, Viva, standing up for her as you did. How did
you ever dare?”

“Why I got my courage from the girl herself. She was--superb! Talk
of blasphemy! Why I've committed _lese majeste_ and regicide and the
Unpardonable Sin since that meeting!” And she told her friend of her
brief passage at arms with Mrs. Halsey. “I never liked the woman,” she
continued; “and some of the things Miss Bell said set me thinking. I
don't believe we half know what's going on in our houses.”

“Well, Mrs. Thaddler's so outraged by 'this scandalous attack upon
the sanctities of the home' that she's going about saying all sorts of
things about Miss Bell. O look--I do believe that's her car!”

Even as they spoke a toneless voice announced, “Mr. and Mrs. Thaddler,”
 and Madam Weatherstone presently appeared to greet these visitors.

“I think you are trying a dangerous experiment!” said Mrs. Thaddler to
her young hostess. “A very dangerous experiment! Bringing that young
iconoclast into your home!”

Mr. Thaddler, stout and sulky, sat as far away as he could and talked
to Mrs. Porne. “I'd like to try that same experiment myself,” said he to
her. “You tried it some time, I understand?”

“Indeed we did--and would still if we had the chance,” she replied. “We
think her a very exceptional young woman.”

Mr. Thaddler chuckled. “She is that!” he agreed. “Gad! How she did set
things humming! They're humming yet--at our house!”

He glanced rather rancorously at his wife, and Mrs. Porne wished, as she
often had before, that Mr. Thaddler wore more clothing over his domestic
afflictions.

“Scandalous!” Mrs. Thaddler was saying to Madam Weatherstone.
“Simply scandalous! Never in my life did I hear such absurd--such
outrageous--charges against the sanctities of the home!”

“There you have it!” said Mr. Thaddler, under his breath. “Sanctity of
the fiddlesticks! There was a lot of truth in what that girl said!”
 Then he looked rather sheepish and flushed a little--which was needless;
easing his collar with a fat finger.

Madam Weatherstone and Mrs. Thaddler were at one on this subject; but
found it hard to agree even so, no love being lost between them; and
the former gave evidence of more satisfaction than distress at this
“dangerous experiment” in the house of her friends. Viva sat silent, but
with a look of watchful intelligence that delighted Mrs. Porne.

“It has done her good already,” she said to herself. “Bless that girl!”

Mr. Thaddler went home disappointed in the real object of his call--he
had hoped to see the Dangerous Experiment again. But his wife was well
pleased.

“They will rue it!” she announced. “Madam Weatherstone is ashamed of her
daughter-in-law--I can see that! _She_ looks cool enough. I don't know
what's got into her!”

“Some of that young woman's good cooking,” her husband suggested.

“That young woman is not there as cook!” she replied tartly. “What she
_is_ there for we shall see later! Mark my words!”

Mr. Thaddler chuckled softly. “I'll mark 'em!” he said.

Diantha had her hands full. Needless to say her sudden entrance was
resented by the corps of servants accustomed to the old regime. She had
the keys; she explored, studied, inventoried, examined the accounts,
worked out careful tables and estimates. “I wish Mother were here!”
 she said to herself. “She's a regular genius for accounts. I _can_ do
it--but it's no joke.”

She brought the results to her employer at the end of the week. “This
is tentative,” she said, “and I've allowed margins because I'm new to a
business of this size. But here's what this house ought to cost you--at
the outside, and here's what it does cost you now.”

Mrs. Weatherstone was impressed. “Aren't you a little--spectacular?” she
suggested.

Diantha went over it carefully; the number of rooms, the number of
servants, the hours of labor, the amount of food and other supplies
required.

“This is only preparatory, of course,” she said. “I'll have to check it
off each month. If I may do the ordering and keep all the accounts I can
show you exactly in a month, or two at most.”

“How about the servants?” asked Mrs. Weatherstone.

There was much to say here, questions of competence, of impertinence, of
personal excellence with “incompatibility of temper.” Diantha was given
a free hand, with full liberty to experiment, and met the opportunity
with her usual energy.

She soon discharged the unsatisfactory ones, and substituted the girls
she had selected for her summer's experiment, gradually adding others,
till the household was fairly harmonious, and far more efficient and
economical. A few changes were made among the men also.

By the time the family moved down to Santa Ulrica, there was quite a new
spirit in the household. Mrs. Weatherstone fully approved of the Girls'
Club Diantha had started at Mrs. Porne's; and it went on merrily in the
larger quarters of the great “cottage” on the cliff.

“I'm very glad I came to you, Mrs. Weatherstone,” said the girl. “You
were quite right about the experience; I did need it--and I'm getting
it!”

She was getting some of which she made no mention.

As she won and held the confidence of her subordinates, and the growing
list of club members, she learned their personal stories; what had
befallen them in other families, and what they liked and disliked in
their present places.

“The men are not so bad,” explained Catharine Kelly, at a club meeting,
meaning the men servants; “they respect an honest girl if she respects
herself; but it's the young masters--and sometimes the old ones!”

“It's all nonsense,” protested Mrs. James, widowed cook of long
standing. “I've worked out for twenty-five years, and I never met no
such goings on!”

Little Ilda looked at Mrs. James' severe face and giggled.

“I've heard of it,” said Molly Connors, “I've a cousin that's workin'
in New York; and she's had to leave two good places on account of their
misbehavin' theirselves. She's a fine girl, but too good-lookin'.”

Diantha studied types, questioned them, drew them out, adjusted facts
to theories and theories to facts. She found the weakness of the
whole position to lie in the utter ignorance and helplessness of the
individual servant. “If they were only organized,” she thought--“and
knew their own power!--Well; there's plenty of time.”

As her acquaintance increased, and as Mrs. Weatherstone's interest in
her plans increased also, she started the small summer experiment
she had planned, for furnishing labor by the day. Mrs. James was an
excellent cook, though most unpleasant to work with. She was quite able
to see that getting up frequent lunches at three dollars, and dinners
at five dollars, made a better income than ten dollars a week even with
several days unoccupied.

A group of younger women, under Diantha's sympathetic encouragement,
agreed to take a small cottage together, with Mrs. James as a species
of chaperone; and to go out in twos and threes as chambermaids and
waitresses at 25 cents an hour. Two of them could set in perfect order
one of the small beach cottage in an hour's time; and the occupants,
already crowded for room, were quite willing to pay a little more in
cash “not to have a servant around.” Most of them took their meals out
in any case.

It was a modest attempt, elastic and easily alterable and based on the
special conditions of a shore resort: Mrs. Weatherstone's known interest
gave it social backing; and many ladies who heartily disapproved of
Diantha's theories found themselves quite willing to profit by this very
practical local solution of the “servant question.”

The “club girls” became very popular. Across the deep hot sand they
ploughed, and clattered along the warping boardwalks, in merry pairs and
groups, finding the work far more varied and amusing than the endless
repetition in one household. They had pleasant evenings too, with plenty
of callers, albeit somewhat checked and chilled by rigorous Mrs. James.

“It is both foolish and wicked!” said Madam Weatherstone to her
daughter-in-law, “Exposing a group of silly girls to such danger and
temptations! I understand there is singing and laughing going on at that
house until half-past ten at night.”

“Yes, there is,” Viva admitted. “Mrs. James insists that they shall
all be in bed at eleven--which is very wise. I'm glad they have good
times--there's safety in numbers, you know.”

“There will be a scandal in this community before long!” said the old
lady solemnly. “And it grieves me to think that this household will be
responsible for it!”

Diantha heard all this from the linen room while Madam Weatherstone
buttonholed her daughter-in-law in the hall; and in truth the old lady
meant that she should hear what she said.

“She's right, I'm afraid!” said Diantha to herself--“there will be a
scandal if I'm not mighty careful and this household will be responsible
for it!”

Even as she spoke she caught Ilda's childish giggle in the lower hall,
and looking over the railing saw her airily dusting the big Chinese
vases and coquetting with young Mr. Mathew.

Later on, Diantha tried seriously to rouse her conscience and her common
sense. “Don't you see, child, that it can't do you anything but harm?
You can't carry on with a man like that as you can with one of your own
friends. He is not to be trusted. One nice girl I had here simply left
the place--he annoyed her so.”

Ilda was a little sulky. She had been quite a queen in the small
Norwegian village she was born in. Young men were young men--and
they might even--perhaps! This severe young housekeeper didn't know
everything. Maybe she was jealous!

So Ilda was rather unconvinced, though apparently submissive, and
Diantha kept a careful eye upon her. She saw to it that Ilda's room had
a bolt as well as key in the door, and kept the room next to it empty;
frequently using it herself, unknown to anyone. “I hate to turn the
child off,” she said to herself, conscientiously revolving the matter.
“She isn't doing a thing more than most girls do--she's only a little
fool. And he's not doing anything I can complain of--yet.”

But she worried over it a good deal, and Mrs. Weatherstone noticed it.

“Doesn't your pet club house go well, 'Miss Bell?' You seem troubled
about something.”

“I am,” Diantha admitted. “I believe I'll have to tell you about it--but
I hate to. Perhaps if you'll come and look I shan't have to say much.”

She led her to a window that looked on the garden, the rich, vivid,
flower-crowded garden of Southern California by the sea. Little Ilda,
in a fresh black frock and snowy, frilly cap and apron, ran out to get a
rose; and while she sniffed and dallied they saw Mr. Mathew saunter out
and join her.

The girl was not as severe with him as she ought to have been--that was
evident; but it was also evident that she was frightened and furious
when he suddenly held her fast and kissed her with much satisfaction. As
soon as her arms were free she gave him a slap that sounded smartly even
at that distance; and ran crying into the house.

“She's foolish, I admit,” said Diantha,--“but she doesn't realize her
danger at all. I've tried to make her. And now I'm more worried than
ever. It seems rather hard to discharge her--she needs care.”

“I'll speak to that young man myself,” said Mrs. Weatherstone. “I'll
speak to his grandmother too!”

“O--would you?” urged Diantha. “She wouldn't believe anything except
that the girl 'led him on'--you know that. But I have an idea that
we could convince her--if you're willing to do something rather
melodramatic--and I think we'd better do it to-night!”

“What's that?” asked her employer; and Diantha explained. It was
melodramatic, but promised to be extremely convincing.

“Do you think he'd dare! under my roof?” hotly demanded Madam
Weatherstone.

“I'm very much afraid it wouldn't be the first time,” Diantha
reluctantly assured her. “It's no use being horrified. But if we could
only make _sure_--”

“If we could only make his grandmother sure!” cried Madam Weatherstone.
“That would save me a deal of trouble and misunderstanding. See here--I
think I can manage it--what makes you think it's to-night?”

“I can't be absolutely certain--” Diantha explained; and told her the
reasons she had.

“It does look so,” her employer admitted. “We'll try it at any rate.”

Urging her mother-in-law's presence on the ground of needing her
experienced advice, Mrs. Weatherstone brought the august lady to the
room next to Ilda's late that evening, the housekeeper in attendance.

“We mustn't wake the servants,” she said in an elaborate whisper.
“They need sleep, poor things! But I want to consult you about these
communicating doors and the locksmith is coming in the morning.--you see
this opens from this side.” She turned the oiled key softly in the lock.
“Now Miss Bell thinks they ought to be left so--so that the girls can
visit one another if they like--what do you think?”

“I think you are absurd to bring me to the top floor, at this time
of night, for a thing like this!” said the old lady. “They should be
permanently locked, to my mind! There's no question about it.”

Viva, still in low tones, discussed this point further; introduced the
subject of wall-paper or hard finish; pointed out from the window a tall
eucalyptus which she thought needed heading; did what she could to keep
her mother-in-law on the spot; and presently her efforts were rewarded.

A sound of muffled speech came from the next room--a man's voice dimly
heard. Madam Weatherstone raised her head like a warhorse.

“What's this! What's this!” she said in a fierce whisper.

Viva laid a hand on her arm. “Sh!” said she. “Let us make sure!” and she
softly unlatched the door.

A brilliant moon flooded the small chamber. They could see little Ilda,
huddled in the bedclothes, staring at her door from which the key had
fallen. Another key was being inserted--turned--but the bolt held.

“Come and open it, young lady!” said a careful voice outside.

“Go away! Go away!” begged the girl, low and breathlessly. “Oh how _can_
you! Go away quick!”

“Indeed, I won't!” said the voice. “You come and open it.”

“Go away,” she cried, in a soft but frantic voice. “I--I'll scream!”

“Scream away!” he answered. “I'll just say I came up to see what the
screaming's about, that's all. You open the door--if you don't want
anybody to know I'm here! I won't hurt you any--I just want to talk to
you a minute.”

Madam Weatherstone was speechless with horror, her daughter-in-law
listened with set lips. Diantha looked from one to the other, and at the
frightened child before them who was now close to the terrible door.

“O please!--_please!_ go away!” she cried in desperation. “O what shall
I do! What shall I do!”

“You can't do anything,” he answered cheerfully. “And I'm coming in
anyhow. You'd better keep still about this for your own sake. Stand from
under!” Madam Weatherstone marched into the room. Ilda, with a little
cry, fled out of it to Diantha.

There was a jump, a scramble, two knuckly hands appeared, a long leg was
put through the transom, two legs wildly wriggling, a descending body,
and there stood before them, flushed, dishevelled, his coat up to his
ears--Mat Weatherstone.

He did not notice the stern rigidity of the figure which stood between
him and the moonlight, but clasped it warmly to his heart.--“Now I've
got you, Ducky!” cried he, pressing all too affectionate kisses upon the
face of his grandmother.

Young Mrs. Weatherstone turned on the light.

It was an embarrassing position for the gentleman.

He had expected to find a helpless cowering girl; afraid to cry out
because her case would be lost if she did; begging piteously that he
would leave her; wholly at his mercy.

What he did find was so inexplicable as to reduce him to gibbering
astonishment. There stood his imposing grandmother, so overwhelmed
with amazement that her trenchant sentences failed her completely; his
stepmother, wearing an expression that almost suggested delight in his
discomfiture; and Diantha, as grim as Rhadamanthus.

Poor little Ilda burst into wild sobs and choking explanations, clinging
to Diantha's hand. “If I'd only listened to you!” she said. “You told me
he was bad! I never thought he'd do such an awful thing!”

Young Mathew fumbled at the door. He had locked it outside in his
efforts with the pass-key. He was red, red to his ears--very red, but
there was no escape. He faced them--there was no good in facing the
door.

They all stood aside and let him pass--a wordless gauntlet.

Diantha took the weeping Ilda to her room for the night. Madam
Weatherstone and Mrs. Weatherstone went down together.

“She must have encouraged him!” the older lady finally burst forth.

“She did not encourage him to enter her room, as you saw and heard,”
 said Viva with repressed intensity.

“He's only a boy!” said his grandmother.

“She is only a child, a helpless child, a foreigner, away from home,
untaught, unprotected,” Viva answered swiftly; adding with quiet
sarcasm--“Save for the shelter of the home!”

They parted in silence.




CHAPTER X. UNION HOUSE.


     “We are weak!” said the Sticks, and men broke them;
      “We are weak!” said the Threads, and were torn;
     Till new thoughts came and they spoke them;
      Till the Fagot and the Rope were born.

     For the Fagot men find is resistant,
     And they anchor on the Rope's taut length;
      Even grasshoppers combined,
      Are a force, the farmers find--
     In union there is strength.


Ross Warden endured his grocery business; strove with it, toiled at it,
concentrated his scientific mind on alien tasks of financial calculation
and practical psychology, but he liked it no better. He had no interest
in business, no desire to make money, no skill in salesmanship.

But there were five mouths at home; sweet affectionate feminine mouths
no doubt, but requiring food. Also two in the kitchen, wider, and
requiring more food. And there were five backs at home to be covered,
to use the absurd metaphor--as if all one needed for clothing was a
four foot patch. The amount and quality of the covering was an unceasing
surprise to Ross, and he did not do justice to the fact that his
womenfolk really saved a good deal by doing their own sewing.

In his heart he longed always to be free of the whole hated load of
tradesmanship. Continually his thoughts went back to the hope of selling
out the business and buying a ranch.

“I could make it keep us, anyhow,” he would plan to himself; “and I
could get at that guinea pig idea. Or maybe hens would do.” He had
a theory of his own, or a personal test of his own, rather, which he
wished to apply to a well known theory. It would take some years to
work it out, and a great many fine pigs, and be of no possible value
financially. “I'll do it sometime,” he always concluded; which was cold
comfort.

His real grief at losing the companionship of the girl he loved, was
made more bitter by a total lack of sympathy with her aims, even if she
achieved them--in which he had no confidence. He had no power to change
his course, and tried not to be unpleasant about it, but he had to
express his feelings now and then.

“Are you coming back to me?” he wrote. “How con you bear to give so much
pain to everyone who loves you? Is your wonderful salary worth more to
you than being here with your mother--with me? How can you say you
love me--and ruin both our lives like this? I cannot come to see you--I
_would_ not come to see you--calling at the back door! Finding the girl
I love in a cap and apron! Can you not see it is wrong, utterly wrong,
all this mad escapade of yours? Suppose you do make a thousand dollars a
year--I shall never touch your money--you know that. I cannot even offer
you a home, except with my family, and I know how you feel about that; I
do not blame you.

“But I am as stubborn as you are, dear girl; I will not live on my
wife's money--you will not live in my mother's house--and we are
drifting apart. It is not that I care less for you dear, or at all for
anyone else, but this is slow death--that's all.”

Mrs. Warden wrote now and then and expatiated on the sufferings of her
son, and his failing strength under the unnatural strain, till Diantha
grew to dread her letters more than any pain she knew. Fortunately they
came seldom.

Her own family was much impressed by the thousand dollars, and found
the occupation of housekeeper a long way more tolerable than that of
house-maid, a distinction which made Diantha smile rather bitterly. Even
her father wrote to her once, suggesting that if she chose to i

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/3016