What Diantha Did

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shall I come home to lunch?" he asked.

"Perhaps you'd better not," she replied coldly.

"Is there to be any dinner?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then--where to begin!

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

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

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

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

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

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

At this moment the doorbell rang.

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

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

"Are you Mrs. Edgar Porne?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Miss Bell."

WHAT DIANTHA DID

CHAPTER V.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What promptness! And I suppose there was plenty to do!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you love him so much?" she asked softly.

"Who?" was the surprising answer.

"Why--Mr. Weatherstone," said Mrs. Porne.

"No--not very much. But he was something."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

Three letters came back quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will be perfectly frank with you, Dear.

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

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

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

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

"Yours, Ross."

Any time she felt like coming back?

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

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

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

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