 CHAPTER V When the fig grows 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 strengthened 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. Porn 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 and ever so long. It must be the new maid. That's it. She's Belle, too. Miss Belle, if you please. The visitor looked puzzled. Is she, uh, 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. Porn 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 hall 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 to-day, and be more thorough later. Mrs. Weatherstone looked about her with a rather languid interest. I'm very glad for you, Baldeer. But what an endless nuisance it all is. Don't you think so? Nuisance! It's slow death, to me at least, Mrs. Porn answered. But I don't see why you should mind. I thought Madame Weatherstone ran that place, 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? It's 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 Isabelle promptly. Gave 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. Porn flushed. I'm sorry, Viva. You ought to have given it to someone else. I haven't gone into the workroom for eight solid days. No help in 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 bell to the fore? She's not bell, 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 Porn 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. Porn. 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 morning note-paper, and cards, and servants' 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 is 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. Porn. 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 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. Porn. Oh, 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 tunnel set a massive old lady in sober silks, with a set impassive countenance, severely correct in every feature. And young Matt 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 him 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 answers were affectionate, patient, and trustful, though not understanding. Her sisters 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, respectively, 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 sisters 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 morning 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 be unutterably foolish and wrong. I suppose you expect, by some mysterious process, to develop 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 tonight, under the shadow of the Keshavows, 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. Porn came home that night he found the wifely smile which is supposed to greet all returning husbands quite genuinely in evidence. Oh, 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. Porn 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. Porn quite glowed with exaltation, 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. Porn, making hay while the sun shone, caught up a little in her sewing and made some conscious 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. She knows that 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 beautifully, 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. Porn. Oh 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 you 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 labour required in the position, the quality and quantity 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 labour which made Mr. Porn open his eyes. Thus, Miss Bell. The ordinary rate for labour in this state, unskilled labour of the ordinary sort, is two dollars 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 labour 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 a dollar fifty a day. Good gracious, my dear, said Mr. Porn laying down the paper, this young woman does appreciate her business, and we're to be let off easy at forty-five dollars 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 seventeen dollars a month. Oh, 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. Porn 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 more in the cheapest restaurant. I see, said Mr. Porn, 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 one day, thirty-five cents. Room, a dollar fifty per week, average per day, twenty-two cents. Total, fifty-seven cents. Total per month, seventeen dollars and ten cents. A dollar fifty per day, per month, forty-five dollars. Remaining payable in cash, twenty-eight dollars. Do I still live? But my dear Ellie, that's only what an average 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 give them 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. Porn read. Labor performed, averaged ten hours a day as follows. Preparation of food materials, care of fires, cooking, table service, and cleaning of dishes, utensils, towels, a 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. Perposterous. 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 doesn't look like a very hard job. The 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, expecting 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. It isn'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 lapped, 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 twenty dollars and save nearly two dollars and sixty cents 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. Oh, 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 punmanship they added Mrs. Isabelle J. Porn, and the contract was made. End of chapter five Chapter six of what Diantha did This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Betsy Bush, February 2009 What Diantha did by Charlotte Perkins Gilman Chapter six, The Cyanoshir 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 will hold our hands up and sing. It's really a singular thing. Isabelle Porn 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, Mirli Vouch saved 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. Porn 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 in economy where 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 had any idea of what housework was like, I'd never have given up architecture to try it. Lucky for you 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. It'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. Porn 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 to 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 Tapalia where she came from. I'm afraid she's engaged. Mrs. Porn sighed ruefully. I don't doubt it, said Mr. Porn. 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 babies. We've had a 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 light-hearted I can love you and baby 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 and I was a real architect. And I did hurt to see it go. And now, oh, now, I've got it and you too, darling, and the baby. So 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 porn 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 in road 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 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 plants she was maturing with grim courage. It's hard on them now, she would say to herself, it's 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 noise to broad that Mrs. Edgar Porn 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. Rhee if Mrs. Porn in an odd whisper? Just the same if not better. I don't even order the meals now unless I want something special. 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 hard work to think up 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. L&A. Dankshire. A woman should be mistress of her own household. Why, I am. I order whenever I specifically 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. L&A. I wish I had her. Many a woman wished she had her, and some, calling when they knew Mrs. Porn 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. Porn will not mind telling you, I am sure. Hmm! said the patronizing visitor, regarding her through her long net. Very good. Whatever it is, I'll double it. When can you come? My engagement with Mrs. Porn is for six months," Diantha inquired, and I do not wish to close with anyone else until that time is up. Thank you for your offer, just the same. Peculiar offensive young person," said Mrs. Thaddler to her husband, looks to me like one of those literary imposters. Mrs. Porn 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 six hundred and fifty dollars 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 hour or any other way. Well, I have other fish to fry. So she pursued her way, and with Mrs. Porn's permission held a sort of girls' club in her spotless kitchen one evening a week during the last three weeks 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 and magazines, and siguously 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 her, 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 cooking was known to many thanks to the weekly entertainments. No one refused. No one regretted acceptance. Never had Mrs. Porn 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, any one's, but in a community where the servant question is even more vexed than in the country at large, where the local produce is quite unequal to the demand, and where distance makes importation an expensive matter, the fact of one woman having, as it appeared, settled this vexed question was enough to give her prominence. Mrs. Ellen A. Denkshire, president of the Orchardina Home and Culture Club, took up the matter seriously. Now Mrs. Porn, 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. Porn, and it behooves us to study the facts while we have them. So much is involved, said little Mrs. Rhee, the corresponding secretary, lifting her pale, earnest face with the perplexed fine lines in it. We are also 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. Denkshire announced. It is one case in a thousand and must be studied. So noble of her, said Mrs. Rhee, you say she was really a school teacher? Mrs. Thadler has put it about that she is one of these dreadful writing persons in disguise. Oh, no, said Mrs. Porn, 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. Rhee advanced. But Mrs. Denkshire 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. Porn, 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 Keller. 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. Rhee, it might lead numbers of other school teachers to see the higher side of the home duties. Furthermore, pursued Mrs. Dankshire, this has occurred 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 dignity of household labor so ably set forth? Isn't it? Wouldn't that be an almost dangerous experiment? Urged Mrs. Rhee, her high narrow forehead fairly craped 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. Rhee, 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 and experiment, Mrs. Porn? And she stood up, taking out her handkerchief. Certainly, said Mrs. Porn, 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. Rhee, shaking her head in odd amusement, and reflecting that she would not dare trust Mrs. Dankshire's handkerchief on her picture tops. We must have her adjust 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. Rhee? Admirable, said Mrs. Rhee. So strong, so sushiant. That certainly covers the subject, said Mrs. Porn. 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. Porn, 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 the preparation for lunch, and stopped to receive the visitors with a serenely civil air, as of a country storekeeper. I'm very glad to meet you, Miss Bell. Very glad indeed, said Mrs. Dankshire, shaking hands with her warmly. We have 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. Rea took Miss Bell's hand with something of the air of a Boston maid in a costing a saint from Hindustan. 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. Porn 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 a 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. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Of What Diantha Did This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Betsy Bush. February 2009 What Diantha Did by Charlotte Perkins Gilman Chapter 7 Heresy and Schism You may talk about religion with a free and opened mind. For ten dollars you may criticize a judge. You may discuss in politics the newest thing you find, or discuss in 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 He was born 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 bed-ridden, 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 these below whispering excitedly among themselves. The platform recalled a tournament of roses, and sternly important among all that fragrant loveliness sat Mrs. Dankshear in the chair, flanked by Miss. Torbus, the recording secretary, Miss. Massing, the treasurer, and Mrs. Rhee, tremulous with importance in her official position. All these ladies wore an air of high empress, even more than that with which they usually assayed their public duties. They were richly dressed, except Miss. Torbus, who came as near 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 healed, 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. Dankshear, shaded by a magnificent bunch of roses, lay that core and crux of all parliamentary 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. Thadler, conscious of her New York millions, and Madame Weatherstone, conscious of her Philadelphia lineage, with Mrs. Johnston Amaro, one of the Boston Marows was awesomely whispered of her, were the heads of what might be called the Conservative Party in this small parliament, while Miss Miranda L. Eggerson, 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 Eggerson 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 officers' reports and committees' reports to new business. Perhaps it is their more frequent practice of religious rights, perhaps their devout acceptance of social rulings and the dictates of fashion, perhaps the lifelong re-iterance of small duties at home, or all these things together which makes women so seriously letter-perfect in parliamentary 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 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 Eggerson 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 odd 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 that it's far more precious. In the din and tumult of the factory, or the dangerous exposure of the public counter, Madame Weatherstone was much impressed at this point, and beat her black fan upon her black glove emphatically. Mrs. Thadler 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 at the face of Diantha, but her expression was unchanged. Whoso had met and managed a room full of merciless children can easily face a woman's club. We have with us on this occasion one, as we may say, our equal in-birth into breeding. Madame Weatherstone here looked painfully shocked as also did the Boston Morrow. Possibly Mrs. Dankshire, whose parents were Iowa farmers, was not unmindful of this, but she went on smoothly. And whose first employment was the honoured task of the teacher, who has deliberately cast her lot with a 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 labour, but a stage of labour that all labour was originally domestic, but that most kinds had not 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 purpose of socialisation has now been taken from the home almost all the manufacturers 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 socialised, 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 specialised, 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. Porn nodding her head amusedly, that so far from being highly paid and easy labour, 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 labour, 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, Diana grew solemn. So far from sharing our homes, she gives up her own, and has none of ours, but the poorest of our food in 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 chilled displeasure about her, she cheerfully pursued. Let us now consider the economic side of the question. Domestic economy is a favourite phrase. As a matter of fact, our method of domestic service isn't ordinarily wasteful. Even where the wife does all the housework without pay, we still waste labour 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 labourers and fifty cooks, two or three cooks could provide for the whole group. To use fifty is to waste forty-seven percent of the labour. But our waste of labour is as nothing to our waste of money. For, say, twenty families, we have twenty kitchens for 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, two hundred dollars a week to pay for the cooking for twenty families for about a hundred persons. Three expert cooks, one at twenty dollars a week and two at fifteen dollars, would save to those twenty families a hundred and fifty dollars 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 fordoomed failure called cooperative housekeeping. At this a wave of relief spread perceptibly. The irritation roused by those preposterous figures and accusations was somewhat elade. 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 cooking and a common cleaning establishment. We are rapidly approaching an improved system of living in which the private home will no more make a cook shop 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 labour, 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 savings 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 a noble domestic service. It must cease to be domestic service, and become world service. Suddenly and quietly she sat down. Miss Eggerson was on her feet. So were others. Madam President, Madam President! resounded from several points at once. Madam Weatherstone, Mrs. Sadler, no. Yes. They really were both on their feet. A 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. Rhee 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. Sadler. And she sat down. She meant to have said Madam Weatherstone, but Mrs. Sadler 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, and agitated assembly met her eye, buzzing universally each to each. Order, said Mrs. Dankshear, 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 Eggerson. I was up first and have been standing ever since. One moment, Miss Eggerson, said Mrs. Dankshear superbly, the reverend Dr. Elthwood. If Mrs. Dankshear 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. Elthwood? Dr. Elthwood came to the platform with the easy air of one to whom platforms belonged by right. Ladies, he began in tones of cordial goodwill, both employer and employed, and gentlemen, whom I am delighted to see here today. I am grateful for the opportunity so graciously extended to me. He bowed six feet of black broadcloth toward Mrs. Dankshear. By your honoured 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 us many the privilege of listening to our valued fellow-citizen, Miss Bell. He bowed again to Miss Bell and to Mrs. Dankshear, and resumed his seat. Miss Eggerson taking advantage of the day's pause to occupy the platform herself. Mr. Elthwood 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 Eggerson was wrapped down by the presidential gavel as Mrs. Thadler, pretentious 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 passive action needs to be taken. This club cannot afford to countenance any such fair ago of mischievous nonsense as we have heard today. 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. Morrow of Boston, in clear cold tones, seconded the motion. But another voice was heard, for the first time in this city, 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 up 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 wished to protest as a member of the club and as a woman sensed the gross discourtesy which has been offered to the Gaston 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 Eggerson, 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 Eggerson, Miss Bell, in their views. I move you, Madam President," cried Mrs. Thadler at the top of her voice, but every member who is guilty of such grossly unparliamentary conduct be hereby dropped from this club. We hereby resign," cried Miss Eggerson. 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 wrappings, 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. End of Chapter 7 CHAPTER 8 OF WHAT DIANTHA DID This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Betsy Bush. February 2009 WHAT DIANTHA DID By Charlotte Perkins Gilman CHAPTER 8 Behind the straight purple backs and smooth purple legs on the box before them, Madame Weatherstone and Mrs. Weatherstone rolled home silently a silence of thunderous portent. Another purple person opened the door for them, and when Madame 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. It said in excess 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 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 will 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 were 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 certainty. Nervous excitement, her mother-in-law replied. You're not like yourself at all tonight. You'll certainly be ill tomorrow. 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 tomorrow. You will see. She went to her room, drew a chair to the wide west window with a far-off view, and sat herself down to think. Dianthus 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 hooves, keen bugle notes, a sense of hope, of power, of new enthusiasm rose in her. Orchardina a society eagerly observing young Mrs. Weatherstone, from her first appearance, had always classified her as delicate. Beside the firm features and high colour 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 prognathus prominence, or bulldog breath, 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 Fantasties, 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 cheeks. 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'd 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. With her away so fast, my dear, he amably 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 of 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's 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 announce 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 dinnertime. 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 around Mahogany table. All of the details of housekeeping revolved around 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 footmen 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 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 she'll replace her with something better presently. How about a little music, Matthew? Won't you start the Victrola? 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 attention 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, she said, and ordered the car. While waiting for it she chatted with Mrs. Porn a while 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. She 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 shortcut 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 adores consisted of the landlady's Johnny, aged 13, 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 a while, 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 more 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. Wiscombe. Nice man, I should think. Another big, sheepish-looking man said, and me, Miss Bell. His name is Thadler. His wife is very disagreeable. Some of the women are favourably impressed, but the old-fashioned kind, my, if hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, but it don't. She wrote herself into a good humour, and dwelt at considerable length in 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 any one, 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 to Diantha's hand warmly, and looked into her eyes. I was a schoolmate of Ellen Porn, 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. Porn. Now I want you to do 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 schoolteacher 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 overstrong 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. Elthwood 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 you. Will you come and be my housekeeper, now, right away, at three 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, and you are worth more. Now don't decline, please. Let me tell you about it. I 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 Alrica 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 were right there, she said, if I could do it. You will 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 your 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 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 Ulrika. 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 arrangements yet. What kind? Two laundresses, a cook, and three second maids, all good ones. Excellent. I know 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. End of chapter 8