CHAPTER 1 HANDICAPT 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 mermatron. 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 very-colored worsted. It was her delight to purchase a skein on skein of soft, bright-hued wool, cut it all up into short lengths, tied 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 presence, 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.  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. Miss Imogen, said a soft voice in the doorway, dear positively ain't no butter into house for 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 saved Dora, had even a contradiction to offer. You know I never notice things, said the artistic Cora, and the D-lines, as their younger sisters called them, said nothing. I might borrow some, o Miss Bell, suggested Sukey, that's nearer into store. Yes, do, Sukey, her mistress agreed. It is so hot. But what have you done with that tubful? Why, some I took back to Miss Bell for what I borrowed before. I'm always most careful to make return for what I borrow. And you know, Miss Warden, that waffles and sweet potatoes and comb-bread, they do take butter. To say nothing, o dumb, little cakes, y'all like so well. And a fried chicken, and... 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 from the pepper-trees. And I meant to have asked her to make me a glass of shrub.  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 suboffensive 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 it to the largest fragment, used what she wanted, and left the rust 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, darling, she said. I wish you'd made a pictureful. Why don't you dough, her sisters demanded.  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 antlikester, 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 maw, 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, for 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 making for Roscoe.  You have a good home and a good brother. No girl had it better. But there is never anything going on, broke in Cora Line, in a tone of complaint. No parties, no going away for vacations, no anything. Now Cora Line, 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 Madame 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 bathrobe. 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 a 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.  Well, mother dear! Affectionately he stood 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 camp for a cologne, a mental 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 ones 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 sulfur 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 Suki 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 daughter's 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. 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 and 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 would 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 could 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, headache-less 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.  And she wept a little. Diantha slipped her hand in his offered arm. He clasped it warmly with his, and they walked along together.  No, thank you, not this time. I must get home and get supper. Besides, I'd rather see just you. He felt at 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 impertinent question? You may ask me any question you like. It couldn't be impertinent. You'll be scandalized, 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. Oh, 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 it. None of the girls have any such foolish notion. And I wouldn't permit it, if any had. Samantha smiled. I suppose you never would permit your wife to work. My widow might have to, not my wife. He held his head a trifle higher, and her hand ached for a moment.  My dearest girl, you've got something far harder than that to do for me, and that's weight. 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 them. 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. We're better worth it than Rachel 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.  Will it be twenty years, do you think? He looked relieved. Why, no indeed, darling. It oughtn't to be at the outmost 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 determinately. 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 a careless wastefulness, that five women, for Dora was older than she had been when she began to do housework, should require servants, seem 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 honour 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?    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. After two, an unnatural daughter. The brooding bird fulfills her task, or she bear lean and brown. Alparent beasts see duty true, alparent beasts their duty do. We are the only kind that asks for duty upside down. The stiff-fraid 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 fuchsia's red-jeweled 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 gray, 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 coziness 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 the 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 their sowing. The sun poured down through the dangling eucalyptus leaves. The dry air, rich with flower odours, flowed softly in, pushing the white sash curtains a steady inch or two. Here, here, came the faint wine 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, the cows knee-deep in river shallows. This was California, hot, arid, tedious in endless sunlight, a place of exile.  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-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.  Didn't you like any of it? And 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, wainly. Seems to me sometimes as if I couldn't tell sometimes what part I like least, she answered. Then with sudden heart, oh, 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 managed 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 running 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. Seeing 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.  And from pantry to table she stepped, swiftly and lightly, bringing 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 them 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. You were better in mind that first time, and your father praised him, 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 them 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 grease wood 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 quarreled. No, indeed we haven't, mother. Ross is splendid. Only—only what, Diantha? Only he's so tied up, said the girl, brushing every chip from the hearth.  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.  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 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 core as as old as I was when I began to teach. Not one of them will lift a finger to earn her own living. They weren't brought up that way, said Mrs. Bell. Their mother don't prove 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 quantity of smoked beef and 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.  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 these 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. My mother! What's the matter? You're crying. Am I?" asked Mrs. Bell weekly, 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?  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.  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, sugarhead. 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 $1,500 a year if I taught for a lifetime. Well, I declare, said her sister, what do you expect to get? I should think $1,500 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 18. 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.  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, facing 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.  I think it's nonsense myself, said the pretty young woman, her hand on the doorknob. But you'd better enjoy those biscuits of dyes while you can. You won't get many more. There's Gerald. Good night. And off she ran. Diantha set the plate full 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 and two unfletcherized mouthfuls, and he put more sugar in his large cup of tea.  What are you talking about, anyway? Diantha meant 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. Vane 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 housework as filled her mother with fond pride, and even rung 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 matter of course. He ate another of Diantha's excellent biscuits, his grayish 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 up 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 lamp-lit table and sat still. Her mother was patiently darning large socks with many holes, a kind of work she especially disliked. "'You'll have to get some new socks, father,' she ventured. "'These are pretty well done.' "'Oh, 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-cheeked 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 felicitous 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 did it baldly. "'I have decided to leave home and go to work,' she said. "'Don't you have enough work 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 enough money 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, or she'll do the washing, too. You didn't object to Henderson going at eighteen. You didn't object to Minnie 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. "'Oh, yes, you have a right, a legal right, if that's what you base your ideas 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 costs 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 your 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 D.R. To medical and dental expenses, $110. To school expenses, $76. To clothing in full, $1,130. To board and lodging at $3 a week, $2,184. To incidentals, $100. Total, $3,600. 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 on one girl's clothes, but the items explained it. Materials, $3 at an average of $10 a year, $30. Five years averaging $20 each year, $100. Five years averaging $30 each year, $150. Five years averaging $50 each year, $250. The rest was mother's labor, averaging 20 full days a year at $2 a day, $40 a year, for 15 years, $600. Mother's labor on one child's clothes, footing up to $600. 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 sayfather, I've got to have a new slate, mine's broke. Broken, Dinah, her mother would gently correct, while she demanded, how did you break it? And scolded her for her careless tomboy ways. Slates, $3, $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 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 to Diantha. Circuses, $3.50, Cher and Melodion, $50. Yes, she was one of five to use and enjoy it. Music lessons, $30. And quite a large margin 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 a dollar a week for that, and $2 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 geneal-ly. Yes, he continued slowly. I guess that's a fair enough account. Into this you owe me $3,600, 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.  All a servant would have done for $3 a week. Even 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, D.R. For labor and services, two years, two hours a day at ten cents an hour, $146. Two years, three hours a day at ten cents an hour, $219. One year, full wages at five dollars a week, $260. Six years and a half, three hours a day at twenty cents, $1,423.50. Total $2,048.50. Mr. Bell meditated carefully on these figures to think of that child's labor footing up to $2,000 and over. It was lucky a man had a wife and daughters to do this work, where 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, 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. He was pleased to see that she had been so saving.  All incidentals for the whole time, $50. This with her balance made just $900. That left $2,100. $2,100 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 a week for four and a half years made $936 that he could realize, but cash advance, $1,164 more, he could not believe it.  For Henderson Junior'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 exactly, then came the deadly balance of the account between them. Her labor, $2,047, her board, $936, her cash advanced, $1,164, total $4,147, his expense for her $3,600, do her from him, $547. 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 account 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.  "'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 $900 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.  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 and beauty and wonder.  Dive through the weight and the wash and the thunder. Look out for the undertow. If Diantha imagined that her arithmetical victory over a two-sorted 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'd 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 defence. 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 neighbours called. Tallbony Mrs. Dellafield, who lived nearest to them, and had known Diantha for some years, felt it was her duty to make a special appeal, or attack, rather, and brought with her stout Mrs. Schlauster, 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 picture 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. Dellafield. 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 going into if one may inquire? Nothing you're ashamed to mention, I hope, asked Mrs. Dellafield. If a woman refuses to mention her age, is it because she's ashamed of it? The girl retorted, and Mrs. Dellafield flushed darkly. Never have I heard such talk from a maiden to her elders, said Mrs. Schloster. 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. It's none of their business, not a shadow. Why should mothers 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 heirs of superior wisdom and did not conduce to a pleasanter frame of mind.  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 came up the theme and heavily approached. It was the minister. Diantha dropped into her rocker and held her 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, hears 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, condonatory, 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, Dr. Major. Mrs. Bell struck in. I'm going to ask you to excuse me and go and lie down for a while. 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 sold arguments of a new position, the passionate enthusiasm of her years. They called a truce. I can see that you think it's 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.  If you have to sew this kind of wild oats, they both smiled at this. I guess we can't stop you. I'll keep your secret. It's 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. Oh, 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.  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?  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 a word of it, 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. And 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 living 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 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 am 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 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. It's nothing wicked or even risky, mother, dear, and as far as I can see it is right. Her mother smiled through her tears.  I shall miss you, Diantha. Don't, mother, sobbed the girl. It's 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. Dear, 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, oh, 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 heartbreaking sincerity.   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. So, already, 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. Didn't fret the child, Father, said Mrs. Henderson softly, she's feeling bad enough. She'd think she would, replied her husband, moreover to my mind she ought to. He got out the small damp local paper in his pipe, and composed himself in obvious patience, yet somehow his patience seemed to fill the kitchen, and act like a ball-end chain to Diantha's feet. She got supper-ready, at least, 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 bows, walked restlessly up and down the path outside. The dry pepper-berries crushed softly underfoot, bracing herself for one more struggle and the hardest of all. He will understand, she told herself over and over, but at the bottom of her heart she knew he wouldn't. She came at last, a slower, wearier step than usual, came and took both her hands and 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.   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 you're 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. Where 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 the 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 chaotic 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?  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 would, 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 want a right to try it? Of course I would, but what has that to do with this case? Why, it's the same thing, don't you see?  He smiled lovingly at her, but shook his head slowly.  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.  How can I get along without you? He tried to put his arm around her, but she drew back. Dear, she said, if I deliberately do what I think is right against your wishes, what will you do? Do, he laughed bitterly. What can I do? I'm tied by the lake here. I can't go after you. I have 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 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.  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 sandcastle 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.  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 grey waste of ineffectual, submissive labour.  It all rose up like a flood in the girl's hot, young heart. It 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. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 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 4 A Crying Need Lovest thou me, said the fair lady, 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 embraced 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.  And now to look at the graceful erect figure, the round throat with silver necklace about it, the soft smooth hair silver filleted, the negative beauty of the dove-coloured 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 porn household. Dear, said Mr. Porn, 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 withmarked gentleness. I'll get you other things, off-dinner. It's a shame you should have to do this, 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. Oh yes, I forgot. 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 a while enjoying the soft silence and the rich flower sense about them, till Eddie did wake presently and Isabel went upstairs.  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's excess 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 Porn, 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 Peppershaded Aina's 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 second 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 Isabelle, 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 in fine pointed hard pencils, her painting the mechanical perfection of an even wash of color. Then she saw, through the floors and walls in 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, and dust in the kitchen she could not count time there, and the dust here she counted it inexorably, the dust of eight days in her great light work-room 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, 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 alder 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? Oh, yes, she answered. I do. Of course I do. I'm just tired, I guess. Good night, sweetheart. She was late in getting to sleep and late in waking. When she finally sat down to the hurriedly-spread breakfast-table, Mr. Porn, long coffee-less, found it a bit difficult to keep his temper. Isabelle 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. Porn with forced patience. It isn't time yet, she announced wearily. He has to have his bath first. Well, said a patient's evidently forced father, isn't it time to feed me? I'm very sorry, she said. The oatmeal is burned again. You'll have to eat corn flakes. 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, dryly. 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.  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 the week's accumulating disorder. The bread she made last night in fear and trembling was hanging fatally 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 dryly, 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 chambermaid, 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.  Speaking of the old lady who had so much to do she couldn't think what to do first, so she sat down and made a pin-cushion. 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. Oh, 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 assayed 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 plant a dozen houses, she fiercely muttered, as she fussed about. Yes, I'd rather build them than to keep one clean. Then were her hopes dashed by a rising wail from above. She sat quite still a while, 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 work-basket that stood nearby, sighing again as she glanced at its accumulated mending. Master Eddie 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, oh dear! she rose, put the baby on the sofa, and started toward the kitchen. At that moment the doorbell rang. Mrs. Porn stopped in her tracks and looked at the door. It remained opaque and immovable. She looked at the baby, who jingled 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 traveling suit, holding a cheap dress suitcase in one hand, and a denim roll-bag in the other, who met her with a cheerful, inquiring smile. Are you Mrs. Edgar Porn, 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 reverend Benjamin A. Miner, Mrs. Porn's particularly reverend 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. Porn, 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 parlour 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. Porn a most friendly and appreciative recommendation of Miss D. Bell by a minister in Yapala's Inca County, 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. Porn fully sufficient. The look of the girl pleased her, though suspiciously above her station and manner. Service of any sort was scarce and high in Orchardina, and she had been an age-long 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. Porn, 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. End of chapter 4