The Crux: A Novel. Gilman Charlotte Perkins

Cloud," she said, bobbing up with decision. "Good-night, Rella – and Susie. Come on child. It's a wonder your mother hasn't sent after us."

      For once Vivian was glad to go.

      "That's a good scheme of Jane Bellair's, don't you think so?" asked the old lady as they shut the gate behind them.

      "I – why yes – I don't see why not."

      Vivian was still dizzy with the blow to her heart's idol. All the soft, still dream-world she had so labored to keep pure and beautiful seemed to shake and waver swimmingly. She could not return to it. The flat white face of her home loomed before her, square, hard, hideously unsympathetic —

      "Grandma," said she, stopping that lady suddenly and laying a pleading hand on her arm, "Grandma, I believe I'll go."

      Mrs. Pettigrew nodded decisively.

      "I thought you would," she said.

      "Do you blame me, Grandma?"

      "Not a mite, child. Not a mite. But I'd sleep on it, if I were you."

      And Vivian slept on it – so far as she slept at all.

      CHAPTER IV

      TRANSPLANTED

      Sometimes a plant in its own habitat

      Is overcrowded, starved, oppressed and daunted;

      A palely feeble thing; yet rises quickly,

      Growing in height and vigor, blooming thickly,

      When far transplanted.

      The days between Vivian's decision and her departure were harder than she had foreseen. It took some courage to make the choice. Had she been alone, independent, quite free to change, the move would have been difficult enough; but to make her plan and hold to it in the face of a disapproving town, and the definite opposition of her parents, was a heavy undertaking.

      By habit she would have turned to Mrs. St. Cloud for advice; but between her and that lady now rose the vague image of a young boy, dead, – she could never feel the same to her again.

      Dr. Bellair proved a tower of strength. "My dear girl," she would say to her, patiently, but with repressed intensity, "do remember that you are not a child! You are twenty-five years old. You are a grown woman, and have as much right to decide for yourself as a grown man. This isn't wicked – it is a wise move; a practical one. Do you want to grow up like the rest of the useless single women in this little social cemetery?"

      Her mother took it very hard. "I don't see how you can think of leaving us. We're getting old now – and here's Grandma to take care of – "

      "Huh!" said that lady, with such marked emphasis that Mrs. Lane hastily changed the phrase to "I mean to be with– you do like to have Vivian with you, you can't deny that, Mother."

      "But Mama," said the girl, "you are not old; you are only forty-three. I am sorry to leave you – I am really; but it isn't forever! I can come back. And you don't really need me. Sarah runs the house exactly as you like; you don't depend on me for a thing, and never did. As to Grandma!" – and she looked affectionately at the old lady – "she don't need me nor anybody else. She's independent if ever anybody was. She won't miss me a mite – will you Grandma?" Mrs. Pettigrew looked at her for a moment, the corners of her mouth tucked in tightly. "No," she said, "I shan't miss you a mite!"