The brooding bird fulfills her task,
Or she-bear lean and brown;
All parent beasts see duty true,
All parent beasts their duty do,
We are the only kind that asks
For duty upside down.
The stiff-rayed windmill stood like a tall mechanical flower, turning
slowly in the light afternoon wind; its faint regular metallic squeak
pricked the dry silence wearingly. Rampant fuchsias, red-jewelled,
heavy, ran up its framework, with crowding heliotrope and nasturtiums.
Thick straggling roses hung over the kitchen windows, and a row of dusty
eucalyptus trees rustled their stiff leaves, and gave an ineffectual
shade to the house.
It was one of those small frame houses common to the northeastern
states, which must be dear to the hearts of their dwellers. For no
other reason, surely, would the cold grey steep-roofed little boxes be
repeated so faithfully in the broad glow of a semi-tropical landscape.
There was an attempt at a “lawn,” the pet ambition of the transplanted
easterner; and a further attempt at “flower-beds,” which merely served
as a sort of springboard to their far-reaching products.
The parlor, behind the closed blinds, was as New England parlors are;
minus the hint of cosiness given by even a fireless stove; the little
bedrooms baked under the roof; only the kitchen spoke of human living,
and the living it portrayed was not, to say the least, joyous. It was
clean, clean with a cleanness that spoke of conscientious labor and
unremitting care. The zinc mat under the big cook-stove was scoured to a
dull glimmer, while that swart altar itself shone darkly from its daily
rubbing.
There was no dust nor smell of dust; no grease spots, no litter
anywhere. But the place bore no atmosphere of contented pride, as does
a Dutch, German or French kitchen, it spoke of Labor, Economy and
Duty--under restriction.
In the dead quiet of the afternoon Diantha and her mother sat there
sewing. The sun poured down through the dangling eucalyptus leaves. The
dry air, rich with flower odors, flowed softly in, pushing the white
sash curtains a steady inch or two. Ee-errr!--Ee-errr!--came the faint
whine of the windmill.
To the older woman rocking in her small splint chair by the rose-draped
window, her thoughts dwelling on long dark green grass, the shade of
elms, and cows knee-deep in river-shallows; this was California--hot,
arid, tedious in endless sunlight--a place of exile.
To the younger, the long seam of the turned sheet pinned tightly to her
knee, her needle flying firmly and steadily, and her thoughts full of
pouring moonlight through acacia boughs and Ross's murmured words, it
was California--rich, warm, full of sweet bloom and fruit, of boundless
vitality, promise, and power--home!
Mrs. Bell drew a long weary sigh, and laid down her work for a moment.
“Why don't you stop it Mother dear? There's surely no hurry about these
things.”
“No--not particularly,” her mother answered, “but there's plenty else to
do.” And she went on with the long neat hemming. Diantha did the “over
and over seam” up the middle.
“What _do_ you do it for anyway, Mother--I always hated this job--and
you don't seem to like it.”
“They wear almost twice as long, child, you know. The middle gets worn
and the edges don't. Now they're reversed. As to liking it--” She gave
a little smile, a smile that was too tired to be sarcastic, but which
certainly did not indicate pleasure.
“What kind of work do you like best--really?” her daughter inquired
suddenly, after a silent moment or two.
“Why--I don't know,” said her mother. “I never thought of it. I never
tried any but teaching. I didn't like that. Neither did your Aunt
Esther, but she's still teaching.”
“Didn't you like any of it?” pursued Diantha.
“I liked arithmetic best. I always loved arithmetic, when I went to
school--used to stand highest in that.”
“And what part of housework do you like best?” the girl persisted.
Mrs. Bell smiled again, wanly. “Seems to me sometimes as if I couldn't
tell sometimes what part I like least!” she answered. Then with sudden
heat--“O my Child! Don't you marry till Ross can afford at least one
girl for you!”
Diantha put her small, strong hands behind her head and leaned back in
her chair. “We'll have to wait some time for that I fancy,” she said.
“But, Mother, there is one part you like--keeping accounts! I never saw
anything like the way you manage the money, and I believe you've got
every bill since you were married.”
“Yes--I do love accounts,” Mrs. Bell admitted. “And I can keep run of
things. I've often thought your Father'd have done better if he'd let me
run that end of his business.”
Diantha gave a fierce little laugh. She admired her father in some ways,
enjoyed him in some ways, loved him as a child does if not ill-treated;
but she loved her mother with a sort of passionate pity mixed with
pride; feeling always nobler power in her than had ever had a fair
chance to grow. It seemed to her an interminable dull tragedy; this
graceful, eager, black-eyed woman, spending what to the girl was
literally a lifetime, in the conscientious performance of duties she did
not love.
She knew her mother's idea of duty, knew the clear head, the steady
will, the active intelligence holding her relentlessly to the task; the
chafe and fret of seeing her husband constantly attempting against her
judgment, and failing for lack of the help he scorned. Young as she was,
she realized that the nervous breakdown of these later years was wholly
due to that common misery of “the square man in the round hole.”
She folded her finished sheet in accurate lines and laid it away--taking
her mother's also. “Now you sit still for once, Mother dear, read or lie
down. Don't you stir till supper's ready.”
And from pantry to table she stepped, swiftly and lightly, setting out
what was needed, greased her pans and set them before her, and proceeded
to make biscuit.
Her mother watched her admiringly. “How easy you do it!” she said. “I
never could make bread without getting flour all over me. You don't
spill a speck!”
Diantha smiled. “I ought to do it easily by this time. Father's got to
have hot bread for supper--or thinks he has!--and I've made 'em--every
night when I was at home for this ten years back!”
“I guess you have,” said Mrs. Bell proudly. “You were only eleven when
you made your first batch. I can remember just as well! I had one of my
bad headaches that night--and it did seem as if I couldn't sit up! But
your Father's got to have his biscuit whether or no. And you said, 'Now
Mother you lie right still on that sofa and let me do it! I can!' And
you could!--you did! They were bettern' mine that first time--and your
Father praised 'em--and you've been at it ever since.”
“Yes,” said Diantha, with a deeper note of feeling than her mother
caught, “I've been at it ever since!”
“Except when you were teaching school,” pursued her mother.
“Except when I taught school at Medville,” Diantha corrected. “When I
taught here I made 'em just the same.”
“So you did,” agreed her mother. “So you did! No matter how tired you
were--you wouldn't admit it. You always were the best child!”
“If I was tired it was not of making biscuits anyhow. I was tired enough
of teaching school though. I've got something to tell you, presently,
Mother.”
She covered the biscuits with a light cloth and set them on the shelf
over the stove; then poked among the greasewood roots to find what
she wanted and started a fire. “Why _don't_ you get an oil stove? Or a
gasoline? It would be a lot easier.”
“Yes,” her mother agreed. “I've wanted one for twenty years; but you
know your Father won't have one in the house. He says they're dangerous.
What are you going to tell me, dear? I do hope you and Ross haven't
quarrelled.”
“No indeed we haven't, Mother. Ross is splendid. Only--”
“Only what, Dinah?”
“Only he's so tied up!” said the girl, brushing every chip from the
hearth. “He's perfectly helpless there, with that mother of his--and
those four sisters.”
“Ross is a good son,” said Mrs. Bell, “and a good brother. I never saw a
better. He's certainly doing his duty. Now if his father'd lived you two
could have got married by this time maybe, though you're too young yet.”
Diantha washed and put away the dishes she had used, saw that the pantry
was in its usual delicate order, and proceeded to set the table, with
light steps and no clatter of dishes.
“I'm twenty-one,” she said.
“Yes, you're twenty-one,” her mother allowed. “It don't seem possible,
but you are. My first baby!” she looked at her proudly.
“If Ross has to wait for all those girls to marry--and to pay his
father's debts--I'll be old enough,” said Diantha grimly.
Her mother watched her quick assured movements with admiration, and
listened with keen sympathy. “I know it's hard, dear child. You've
only been engaged six months--and it looks as if it might be some years
before Ross'll be able to marry. He's got an awful load for a boy to
carry alone.”
“I should say he had!” Diantha burst forth. “Five helpless women!--or
three women, and two girls. Though Cora's as old as I was when I began
to teach. And not one of 'em will lift a finger to earn her own living.”
“They weren't brought up that way,” said Mrs. Bell. “Their mother don't
approve of it. She thinks the home is the place for a woman--and so does
Ross--and so do I,” she added rather faintly.
Diantha put her pan of white puff-balls into the oven, sliced a quantity
of smoked beef in thin shavings, and made white sauce for it, talking
the while as if these acts were automatic. “I don't agree with Mrs.
Warden on that point, nor with Ross, nor with you, Mother,” she said,
“What I've got to tell you is this--I'm going away from home. To work.”
Mrs. Bell stopped rocking, stopped fanning, and regarded her daughter
with wide frightened eyes.
“Why Diantha!” she said. “Why Diantha! You wouldn't go and leave your
Mother!”
Diantha drew a deep breath and stood for a moment looking at the feeble
little woman in the chair. Then she went to her, knelt down and hugged
her close--close.
“It's not because I don't love you, Mother. It's because I do. And it's
not because I don't love Ross either:--it's because I _do._ I want to
take care of you, Mother, and make life easier for you as long as
you live. I want to help him--to help carry that awful load--and I'm
going--to--do--it!”
She stood up hastily, for a step sounded on the back porch. It was only
her sister, who hurried in, put a dish on the table, kissed her mother
and took another rocking-chair.
“I just ran in,” said she, “to bring those berries. Aren't they
beauties? The baby's asleep. Gerald hasn't got in yet. Supper's all
ready, and I can see him coming time enough to run back. Why, Mother!
What's the matter? You're crying!”
“Am I?” asked Mrs. Bell weakly; wiping her eyes in a dazed way.
“What are you doing to Mother, Diantha?” demanded young Mrs. Peters.
“Bless me! I thought you and she never had any differences! I was always
the black sheep, when I was at home. Maybe that's why I left so early!”
She looked very pretty and complacent, this young matron and mother of
nineteen; and patted the older woman's hand affectionately, demanding,
“Come--what's the trouble?”
“You might as well know now as later,” said her sister. “I have decided
to leave home, that's all.”
“To leave home!” Mrs. Peters sat up straight and stared at her. “To
leave home!--And Mother!”
“Well?” said Diantha, while the tears rose and ran over from her
mother's eyes. “Well, why not? You left home--and Mother--before you
were eighteen.”
“That's different!” said her sister sharply. “I left to be married,--to
have a home of my own. And besides I haven't gone far! I can see Mother
every day.”
“That's one reason I can go now better than later on,” Diantha said.
“You are close by in case of any trouble.”
“What on earth are you going for? Ross isn't ready to marry yet, is he?”
“No--nor likely to be for years. That's another reason I'm going.”
“But what _for,_ for goodness sake.”
“To earn money--for one thing.”
“Can't you earn money enough by teaching?” the Mother broke in eagerly.
“I know you haven't got the same place this fall--but you can get
another easy enough.”
Diantha shook her head. “No, Mother, I've had enough of that. I've
taught for four years. I don't like it, I don't do well, and it exhausts
me horribly. And I should never get beyond a thousand or fifteen hundred
dollars a year if I taught for a lifetime.”
“Well, I declare!” said her sister. “What do you _expect_ to get? I
should think fifteen hundred dollars a year was enough for any woman!”
Diantha peered into the oven and turned her biscuit pan around.
“And you're meaning to leave home just to make money, are you?”
“Why not?” said Diantha firmly. “Henderson did--when he was eighteen.
None of you blamed him.”
“I don't see what that's got to do with it,” her mother ventured.
“Henderson's a boy, and boys have to go, of course. A mother expects
that. But a girl--Why, Diantha! How can I get along without you! With my
health!”
“I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself to think of such a thing!”
said young Mrs. Peters.
A slow step sounded outside, and an elderly man, tall, slouching,
carelessly dressed, entered, stumbling a little over the rag-mat at the
door.
“Father hasn't got used to that rug in fourteen years!” said his
youngest daughter laughingly. “And Mother will straighten it out after
him! I'm bringing Gerald up on better principles. You should just see
him wait on me!”
“A man should be master in his own household,” Mr. Bell proclaimed,
raising a dripping face from the basin and looking around for the
towel--which his wife handed him.
“You won't have much household to be master of presently,” said Mrs.
Peters provokingly. “Half of it's going to leave.”
Mr. Bell came out of his towel and looked from one to the other for some
explanation of this attempted joke, “What nonsense are you talking?” he
demanded.
“I think it's nonsense myself,” said the pretty young woman--her hand on
the doorknob. “But you'd better enjoy those biscuits of Di's while you
can--you won't get many more! There's Gerald--good night!” And off she
ran.
Diantha set the plateful on the table, puffy, brown, and crisply
crusted. “Supper's ready,” she said. “Do sit down, Mother,” and she held
the chair for her. “Minnie's quite right, Father, though I meant not to
tell you till you'd had supper. I am going away to work.”
Mr. Bell regarded his daughter with a stern, slow stare; not so much
surprised as annoyed by an untimely jesting. He ate a hot biscuit in two
un-Fletcherized mouthfuls, and put more sugar in his large cup of tea.
“You've got your Mother all worked up with your nonsense,” said he.
“What are you talking about anyway?”
Diantha met his eyes unflinchingly. He was a tall old man, still
handsome and impressive in appearance, had been the head of his own
household beyond question, ever since he was left the only son of
an idolizing mother. But he had never succeeded in being the head
of anything else. Repeated failures in the old New England home had
resulted in his ruthlessly selling all the property there; and bringing
his delicate wife and three young children to California. Vain were her
protests and objections. It would do her good--best place in the world
for children--good for nervous complaints too. A wife's duty was to
follow her husband, of course. She had followed, willy nilly; and it was
good for the children--there was no doubt of that.
Mr. Bell had profited little by his venture. They had the ranch, the
flowers and fruit and ample living of that rich soil; but he had failed
in oranges, failed in raisins, failed in prunes, and was now failing in
wealth-promising hens.
But Mrs. Bell, though an ineffectual housekeeper, did not fail in
the children. They had grown up big and vigorous, sturdy, handsome
creatures, especially the two younger ones. Diantha was good-looking
enough. Roscoe Warden thought her divinely beautiful. But her young
strength had been heavily taxed from childhood in that complex process
known as “helping mother.” As a little child she had been of constant
service in caring for the babies; and early developed such competence in
the various arts of house work as filled her mother with fond pride, and
even wrung from her father some grudging recognition. That he did not
value it more was because he expected such competence in women, all
women; it was their natural field of ability, their duty as wives and
mothers. Also as daughters. If they failed in it that was by illness or
perversity. If they succeeded--that was a matter of course.
He ate another of Diantha's excellent biscuits, his greyish-red whiskers
slowly wagging; and continued to eye her disapprovingly. She said
nothing, but tried to eat; and tried still harder to make her heart go
quietly, her cheeks keep cool, and her eyes dry. Mrs. Bell also strove
to keep a cheerful countenance; urged food upon her family; even tried
to open some topic of conversation; but her gentle words trailed off
into unnoticed silence.
Mr. Bell ate until he was satisfied and betook himself to a comfortable
chair by the lamp, where he unfolded the smart local paper and lit
his pipe. “When you've got through with the dishes, Diantha,” he said
coldly, “I'll hear about this proposition of yours.”
Diantha cleared the table, lowered the leaves, set it back against
the wall, spreading the turkey-red cloth upon it. She washed the
dishes,--her kettle long since boiling, scalded them, wiped them, set
them in their places; washed out the towels, wiped the pan and hung it
up, swiftly, accurately, and with a quietness that would have seemed
incredible to any mistress of heavy-footed servants. Then with
heightened color and firm-set mouth, she took her place by the lamplit
table and sat still.
Her mother was patiently darning large socks with many holes--a kind
of work she specially disliked. “You'll have to get some new socks,
Father,” she ventured, “these are pretty well gone.”
“O they'll do a good while yet,” he replied, not looking at them. “I
like your embroidery, my dear.”
That pleased her. She did not like to embroider, but she did like to be
praised.
Diantha took some socks and set to work, red-checked and excited, but
silent yet. Her mother's needle trembled irregularly under and over, and
a tear or two slid down her cheeks.
Finally Mr. Bell laid down his finished paper and his emptied pipe and
said, “Now then. Out with it.”
This was not a felicitious opening. It is really astonishing how little
diplomacy parents exhibit, how difficult they make it for the young to
introduce a proposition. There was nothing for it but a bald statement,
so Diantha made it baldly.
“I have decided to leave home and go to work,” she said.
“Don't you have work enough to do at home?” he inquired, with the same
air of quizzical superiority which had always annoyed her so intensely,
even as a little child.
She would cut short this form of discussion: “I am going away to earn
my living. I have given up school-teaching--I don't like it, and, there
isn't money enough in it. I have plans--which will speak for themselves
later.”
“So,” said Mr. Bell, “Plans all made, eh? I suppose you've considered
your Mother in these plans?”
“I have,” said his daughter. “It is largely on her account that I'm
going.”
“You think it'll be good for your Mother's health to lose your
assistance, do you?”
“I know she'll miss me; but I haven't left the work on her shoulders. I
am going to pay for a girl--to do the work I've done. It won't cost you
any more, Father; and you'll save some--for she'll do the washing too.
You didn't object to Henderson's going--at eighteen. You didn't object
to Minnie's going--at seventeen. Why should you object to my going--at
twenty-one.”
“I haven't objected--so far,” replied her father. “Have your plans also
allowed for the affection and duty you owe your parents?”
“I have done my duty--as well as I know how,” she answered. “Now I am
twenty-one, and self-supporting--and have a right to go.”
“O yes. You have a right--a legal right--if that's what you base your
idea of a child's duty on! And while you're talking of rights--how about
a parent's rights? How about common gratitude! How about what you owe
to me--for all the care and pains and cost it's been to bring you up. A
child's a rather expensive investment these days.”
Diantha flushed, she had expected this, and yet it struck her like a
blow. It was not the first time she had heard it--this claim of filial
obligation.
“I have considered that position, Father. I know you feel that
way--you've often made me feel it. So I've been at some pains to work it
out--on a money basis. Here is an account--as full as I could make it.”
She handed him a paper covered with neat figures. The totals read as
follows:
Miss Diantha Bell,
To Mr. Henderson R. Bell, Dr.
To medical and dental expenses... $110.00
To school expenses... $76.00
To clothing, in full... $1,130.00
To board and lodging at $3.00 a week... $2,184.00
To incidentals... $100.00
-------- $3.600.00
He studied the various items carefully, stroking his beard, half in
anger, half in unavoidable amusement. Perhaps there was a tender feeling
too, as he remembered that doctor's bill--the first he ever paid, with
the other, when she had scarlet fever; and saw the exact price of the
high chair which had served all three of the children, but of which she
magnanimously shouldered the whole expense.
The clothing total was so large that it made him whistle--he knew he had
never spent $1,130.00 on one girl's clothes. But the items explained it.
Materials, three years at an average of $10 a year... $30.00
Five years averaging $20 each year... $100.00
Five years averaging $30 each year... $50.00
Five years averaging $50 each year... $250.00
------- $530.00
The rest was “Mother's labor”, averaging twenty full days a year at $2
a day, $40 a year. For fifteen years, $600.00. Mother's labor--on one
child's, clothes--footing up to $600.00. It looked strange to see cash
value attached to that unfailing source of family comfort and advantage.
The school expenses puzzled him a bit, for she had only gone to public
schools; but she was counting books and slates and even pencils--it
brought up evenings long passed by, the sewing wife, the studying
children, the “Say, Father, I've got to have a new slate--mine's broke!”
“Broken, Dina,” her Mother would gently correct, while he demanded,
“How did you break it?” and scolded her for her careless tomboy ways.
Slates--three, $1.50--they were all down. And slates didn't cost so much
come to think of it, even the red-edged ones, wound with black, that she
always wanted.
Board and lodging was put low, at $3.00 per week, but the items had a
footnote as to house-rent in the country, and food raised on the farm.
Yes, he guessed that was a full rate for the plain food and bare little
bedroom they always had.
“It's what Aunt Esther paid the winter she was here,” said Diantha.
Circuses--three... $1.50
Share in melodeon... $50.00
Yes, she was one of five to use and enjoy it.
Music lessons... $30.00
And quite a large margin left here, called miscellaneous, which he
smiled to observe made just an even figure, and suspected she had put in
for that purpose as well as from generosity.
“This board account looks kind of funny,” he said--“only fourteen years
of it!”
“I didn't take table-board--nor a room--the first year--nor much
the second. I've allowed $1.00 a week for that, and $2.00 for the
third--that takes out two, you see. Then it's $156 a year till I was
fourteen and earned board and wages, two more years at $156--and I've
paid since I was seventeen, you know.”
“Well--I guess you did--I guess you did.” He grinned genially. “Yes,”
he continued slowly, “I guess that's a fair enough account. 'Cording
to this, you owe me $3,600.00, young woman! I didn't think it cost that
much to raise a girl.”
“I know it,” said she. “But here's the other side.”
It was the other side. He had never once thought of such a side to the
case. This account was as clear and honest as the first and full of
exasperating detail. She laid before him the second sheet of figures and
watched while he read, explaining hurriedly:
“It was a clear expense for ten years--not counting help with the
babies. Then I began to do housework regularly--when I was ten or
eleven, two hours a day; three when I was twelve and thirteen--real work
you'd have had to pay for, and I've only put it at ten cents an hour.
When Mother was sick the year I was fourteen, and I did it all but the
washing--all a servant would have done for $3.00 a week. Ever since then
I have done three hours a day outside of school, full grown work now, at
twenty cents an hour. That's what we have to pay here, you know.”
Thus it mounted up:
Mr. Henderson R. Bell,
To Miss Diantha Bell, Dr.
For labor and services!!!!!
Two years, two hours a day at 10c. an hour... $146.00
Two years, three hours a day at 10c. an hour... $219.00
One year, full wages at $5.00 a week... $260.00
Six years and a half, three hours a day at 20c... $1423.50
-------- $2048.50
Mr. Bell meditated carefully on these figures. To think of that child's
labor footing up to two thousand dollars and over! It was lucky a man
had a wife and daughters to do this work, or he could never support a
family.
Then came her school-teaching years. She had always been a fine scholar
and he had felt very proud of his girl when she got a good school
position in her eighteenth year.
California salaries were higher than eastern ones, and times had
changed too; the year he taught school he remembered the salary was only
$300.00--and he was a man. This girl got $600, next year $700, $800,
$900; why it made $3,000 she had earned in four years. Astonishing. Out
of this she had a balance in the bank of $550.00. He was pleased to see
that she had been so saving. And her clothing account--little enough he
admitted for four years and six months, $300.00. All incidentals for
the whole time, $50.00--this with her balance made just $900. That left
$2,100.00.
“Twenty-one hundred dollars unaccounted for, young lady!--besides this
nest egg in the bank--I'd no idea you were so wealthy. What have you
done with all that?”
“Given it to you, Father,” said she quietly, and handed him the third
sheet of figures.
Board and lodging at $4.00 a week for 4 1/2 years made $936.00, that he
could realize; but “cash advance” $1,164 more--he could not believe it.
That time her mother was so sick and Diantha had paid both the doctor
and the nurse--yes--he had been much cramped that year--and nurses come
high. For Henderson, Jr.'s, expenses to San Francisco, and again for
Henderson when he was out of a job--Mr. Bell remembered the boy's
writing for the money, and his not having it, and Mrs. Bell saying she
could arrange with Diantha.
Arrange! And that girl had kept this niggardly account of it! For
Minnie's trip to the Yosemite--and what was this?--for his raisin
experiment--for the new horse they simply had to have for the drying
apparatus that year he lost so much money in apricots--and for the
spraying materials--yes, he could not deny the items, and they covered
that $1,164.00 exactly.
Then came the deadly balance, of the account between them:
Her labor... $2,047.00
Her board... $936.00
Her “cash advanced”... $1,164.00
--------- $4,147.00
His expense for her... $3,600
--------- Due her from him... $547.00
Diantha revolved her pencil between firm palms, and looked at him
rather quizzically; while her mother rocked and darned and wiped away an
occasional tear. She almost wished she had not kept accounts so well.
Mr. Bell pushed the papers away and started to his feet.
“This is the most shameful piece of calculation I ever saw in my life,”
said he. “I never heard of such a thing! You go and count up in cold
dollars the work that every decent girl does for her family and is glad
to! I wonder you haven't charged your mother for nursing her?”
“You notice I haven't,” said Diantha coldly.
“And to think,” said he, gripping the back of a chair and looking down
at her fiercely, “to think that a girl who can earn nine hundred dollars
a year teaching school, and stay at home and do her duty by her family
besides, should plan to desert her mother outright--now she's old and
sick! Of course I can't stop you! You're of age, and children nowadays
have no sense of natural obligation after they're grown up. You can
go, of course, and disgrace the family as you propose--but you needn't
expect to have me consent to it or approve of it--or of you. It's a
shameful thing--and you are an unnatural daughter--that's all I've got
to say!”
Mr. Bell took his hat and went out--a conclusive form of punctuation
much used by men in discussions of this sort.