II
Four days after the Jolly Seventeen debacle Vida Sherwin
called and casually blew Carol's world to pieces.
"May I come in and gossip a while?" she said, with such
excess of bright innocence that Carol was uneasy. Vida took
off her furs with a bounce, she sat down as though it were
a gymnasium exercise, she flung out:
"Feel disgracefully good, this weather! Raymond Wutherspoon
says if he had my energy he'd be a grand opera singer.
I always think this climate is the finest in the world, and my
friends are the dearest people in the world, and my work is
the most essential thing in the world. Probably I fool myself.
But I know one thing for certain: You're the pluckiest little
idiot in the world."
"And so you are about to flay me alive." Carol was
cheerful about it.
"Am I? Perhaps. I've been wondering—I know that the
third party to a squabble is often the most to blame: the one
who runs between A and B having a beautiful time telling each
of them what the other has said. But I want you to take a
big part in vitalizing Gopher Prairie and so— Such a very
unique opportunity and— Am I silly?"
"I know what you mean. I was too abrupt at the Jolly
Seventeen."
"It isn't that. Matter of fact, I'm glad you told them some
wholesome truths about servants. (Though perhaps you were
just a bit tactless.) It's bigger than that. I wonder if you
understand that in a secluded community like this every
newcomer is on test? People cordial to her but watching her all
the time. I remember when a Latin teacher came here from
Wellesley, they resented her broad A. Were sure it was
affected. Of course they have discussed you—"
"Have they talked about me much?"
"My dear!"
"I always feel as though I walked around in a cloud, looking
out at others but not being seen. I feel so inconspicuous and
so normal—so normal that there's nothing about me to discuss.
I can't realize that Mr. and Mrs. Haydock must gossip about
me." Carol was working up a small passion of distaste. "And
I don't like it. It makes me crawly to think of their daring
to talk over all I do and say. Pawing me over! I resent it.
I hate—"
"Wait, child! Perhaps they resent some things in you. I
want you to try and be impersonal. They'd paw over anybody
who came in new. Didn't you, with newcomers in
College?"
"Yes."
"Well then! Will you be impersonal? I'm paying you the
compliment of supposing that you can be. I want you to
be big enough to help me make this town worth while."
"I'll be as impersonal as cold boiled potatoes. (Not that
I shall ever be able to help you `make the town worth while.')
What do they say about me? Really. I want to know."
"Of course the illiterate ones resent your references to
anything farther away than Minneapolis. They're so suspicious—
that's it, suspicious. And some think you dress too well."
"Oh, they do, do they! Shall I dress in gunny-sacking to
suit them?"
"Please! Are you going to be a baby?"
"I'll be good," sulkily.
"You certainly will, or I won't tell you one single thing.
You must understand this: I'm not asking you to change yourself.
Just want you to know what they think. You must
do that, no matter how absurd their prejudices are, if you're
going to handle them. Is it your ambition to make this a
better town, or isn't it?"
"I don't know whether it is or not!"
"Why—why— Tut, tut, now, of course it is! Why, I
depend on you. You're a born reformer."
"I am not—not any more!"
"Of course you are."
"Oh, if I really could help— So they think I'm
affected?"
"My lamb, they do! Now don't say they're nervy. After
all, Gopher Prairie standards are as reasonable to Gopher
Prairie as Lake Shore Drive standards are to Chicago. And
there's more Gopher Prairies than there are Chicagos. Or
Londons. And— I'll tell you the whole story: They think
you're showing off when you say `American' instead of
`Ammurrican.' They think you're too frivolous. Life's so
serious to them that they can't imagine any kind of laughter
except Juanita's snortling. Ethel Villets was sure you were
patronizing her when—"
"Oh, I was not!"
"—you talked about encouraging reading; and Mrs. Elder
thought you were patronizing when you said she had `such
a pretty little car.' She thinks it's an enormous car! And
some of the merchants say you're too flip when you talk to
them in the store and—"
"Poor me, when I was trying to be friendly!"
"—every housewife in town is doubtful about your being
so chummy with your Bea. All right to be kind, but they say
you act as though she were your cousin. (Wait now! There's
plenty more.) And they think you were eccentric in
furnishing this room—they think the broad couch and that
Japanese dingus are absurd. (Wait! I know they're silly.) And
I guess I've heard a dozen criticize you because you don't
go to church oftener and—"
"I can't stand it—I can't bear to realize that they've been
saying all these things while I've been going about so happily
and liking them. I wonder if you ought to have told me? It
will make me self-conscious."
"I wonder the same thing. Only answer I can get is the
old saw about knowledge being power. And some day you'll
see how absorbing it is to have power, even here; to control
the town— Oh, I'm a crank. But I do like to see things
moving."
"It hurts. It makes these people seem so beastly and
treacherous, when I've been perfectly natural with them. But
let's have it all. What did they say about my Chinese
house-warming party?"
"Why, uh—"
"Go on. Or I'll make up worse things than anything you
can tell me."
"They did enjoy it. But I guess some of them felt you
were showing off—pretending that your husband is richer than
he is."
"I can't— Their meanness of mind is beyond any horrors
I could imagine. They really thought that I— And you
want to `reform' people like that when dynamite is so cheap?
Who dared to say that? The rich or the poor?"
"Fairly well assorted."
"Can't they at least understand me well enough to see
that though I might be affected and culturine, at least I simply
couldn't commit that other kind of vulgarity? If they must
know, you may tell them, with my compliments, that Will
makes about four thousand a year, and the party cost half of
what they probably thought it did. Chinese things are not
very expensive, and I made my own costume—"
"Stop it! Stop beating me! I know all that. What they
meant was: they felt you were starting dangerous competition
by giving a party such as most people here can't afford. Four
thousand is a pretty big income for this town."
"I never thought of starting competition. Will you believe
that it was in all love and friendliness that I tried to give
them the gayest party I could? It was foolish; it was childish
and noisy. But I did mean it so well."
"I know, of course. And it certainly is unfair of them to
make fun of your having that Chinese food—chow men, was
it?—and to laugh about your wearing those pretty trousers—"
Carol sprang up, whimpering, "Oh, they didn't do that!
They didn't poke fun at my feast, that I ordered so carefully
for them! And my little Chinese costume that I was so happy
making—I made it secretly, to surprise them. And they've
been ridiculing it, all this while!"
She was huddled on the couch.
Vida was stroking her hair, muttering, "I shouldn't—"
Shrouded in shame, Carol did not know when Vida slipped
away. The clock's bell, at half past five, aroused her. "I
must get hold of myself before Will comes. I hope he never
knows what a fool his wife is. . . . Frozen, sneering,
horrible hearts."
Like a very small, very lonely girl she trudged up-stairs,
slow step by step, her feet dragging, her hand on the rail.
It was not her husband to whom she wanted to run for
protection—it was her father, her smiling understanding father,
dead these twelve years.