“Why, Morton,” she said; “is that you? What are you sitting up for? It’s awfully late. I’m just after some water.” She poured a glassful. “Don’t you want some?”
“No, thank you,” he said. “Yes, I will. Give me some, please.”
The girl gave him a glass, drank from her own and set it down, turning to go, but he reached out and caught a flowing sleeve of her kimono.
“Don’t go, Vivian! Do sit down and talk to a fellow. I’ve been trying to see you for days and days.”
“Why, Morton Elder, how absurd! You have certainly seen me every day, and we’ve talked hours this very evening. This is no time for conversation, surely.”
“The best time in the world,” he assured her. “All the other times there are people about — dozens — hundreds — swarms! I want to talk to just you.”
There were certainly no dozens or hundreds about now, but as certainly there was one, noting with keen and disapproving interest this midnight tête-à-tête. It did not last very long, and was harmless and impersonal enough while it lasted.
Vivian sat for a few moments, listening patiently while the young man talked of his discouragements, his hopes, his wishes to succeed in life, to be worthy of her; but when the personal note sounded, when he tried to take her hand in the semi-darkness, then her New England conscience sounded also, and she rose to her feet and left him.
“We’ll talk about that another time,” she said. “Now do be quiet and do not wake people up.”
He stole upstairs, dutifully, and she crept softly back to her room and got into bed, without eliciting more than a mild grunt from sleepy Susie. Silence reigned at last in the house. Not for long, however.
At about half past twelve Dr. Bellair was roused from a well-earned sleep by a light, insistent tap upon her door. She listened, believing it to be a wind-stirred twig; but no, it was a finger tap — quiet — repeated. She opened the door upon Jeanne in her stocking feet.
“Your pardon, Mrs. Doctor,” said the visitor, “but it is of importance. May I speak for a little? No, I’m not ill, and we need not a light.”
They sat in the clean little office, the swaying cottonwood boughs making a changeful pattern on the floor.
“You are a doctor, and you can make an end to it — you must make an end to it,” said Jeanne, after a little hesitation. “This young man — this nephew — he must not marry my young lady.”
“What makes you think he wants to?” asked the doctor.
“I have seen, I have heard — I know,” said Jeanne. “You know, all can see that he loves her. He! Not such as he for my young lady.”
“Why do you object to him, Jeanne?”
“He has lived the bad life,” said the woman, grimly.
“Most young men are open to criticism,” said Dr. Bellair. “Have you anything definite to tell me — anything that you could prove? — if it were necessary to save her?” She leaned forward, elbows on knees.
Jeanne sat in the flickering shadows, considering her words. “He has had the sickness,” she said at last.
“Can you prove that?”
“I can prove to you, a doctor, that Coralie and Anastasia and Estelle — they have had it. They are still alive; but not so beautiful.”
“Yes; but how can you prove it on him?”
“I know he was with them. Well, it was no secret. I myself have seen — he was there often.”
“How on earth have you managed not to be recognized?” Dr. Bellair inquired after a few moments.
Jeanne laughed bitterly. “That was eight years ago; he was but a boy — gay and foolish, with the others. What does a boy know?... Also, at that time I was blonde, and — of a difference.”
“I see,” said the doctor, “I see! That’s pretty straight. You know personally of that time, and you know the record of those others. But that was a long time ago.”
“I have heard of him since, many times, in such company,” said Jeanne. They sat in silence for some time. A distant church clock struck a single deep low note. The woman rose, stood for a hushed moment, suddenly burst forth with hushed intensity: “You must save her, doctor — you will! I was young once,” she went on. “I did not know — as she does not. I married, and — that came to me! It made me a devil — for awhile. Tell her, doctor — if you must; tell her about my boy!”
She went away, weeping silently, and Dr. Bellair sat sternly thinking in her chair, and fell asleep in it from utter weariness.
CHAPTER VIII.
A MIXTURE.
In poetry and painting and fiction we see
Such praise for the Dawn of the Day,
We’ve long since been convinced that a sunrise must be
All Glorious and Golden and Gay.
But we find there are mornings quite foggy and drear,
With the clouds in a low-hanging pall;
Till the grey light of daylight can hardly make clear
That the sun has arisen at all.
Dr. Richard Hale left his brood of temporary orphans without really expecting for them any particular oversight from Andrew Dykeman; but the two were sufficiently close friends to well warrant the latter in moving over to The Monastery — as Jimmie Saunders called it.
Mr. Dykeman was sufficiently popular with the young men to be welcome, even if he had not had a good excuse, and when they found how super-excellent his excuse was they wholly approved.
To accommodate Miss Orella was something — all the boys liked Miss Orella. They speculated among themselves on her increasing youth and good looks, and even exchanged sagacious theories as to the particular acting cause. But when they found that Mr. Dykeman’s visit was to make room for the installation of Mrs. St. Cloud, they were more than pleased.
All the unexpressed ideals of masculine youth seemed centered in this palely graceful lady; the low, sweet voice, the delicate hands, the subtle sympathy of manner, the nameless, quiet charm of dress.
Young Burns became her slave on sight, Lawson and Peters fell on the second day; not one held out beyond the third. Even Susie’s attractions paled, her very youth became a disadvantage; she lacked that large considering tenderness.
“Fact is,” Mr. Peters informed his friends rather suddenly, “young women are selfish. Naturally, of course. It takes some experience to — well, to understand a fellow.” They all agreed with him.
Mr. Dykeman, quiet and reserved as always, was gravely polite to the newcomer, and Mr. Skee revolved at a distance, making observations. Occasionally he paid some court to her, at which times she was cold to him; and again he devoted himself to the other ladies with his impressive air, as of one bowing low and sweeping the floor with a plumed hat.
Mr. Skee’s Stetson had, as a matter of fact, no sign of plumage, and his bows were of a somewhat jerky order; but his gallantry was sweeping and impressive, none the less. If he remained too far away Mrs. St. Cloud would draw him to her circle, which consisted of all the other gentlemen.
There were two exceptions. Mr. James Saunders had reached the stage where any woman besides Susie was but a skirted ghost, and Morton was by this time so deeply devoted to Vivian that he probably would not have wavered even if left alone. He was not wholly a free agent, however.
Adela St. Cloud had reached an age when something must be done. Her mysterious absent husband had mysteriously and absently died, and still she never breathed a word against him. But the Bible Class in Bainville furnished no satisfactory material for further hopes, the place of her earlier dwelling seemed not wholly desirable now, and the West had called her.
Finding herself comfortably placed in Mr. Dykeman’s room, and judging from the number of his shoe-trees and the quality of his remaining toilet articles that he might be considered “suitable,” she decided to remain in the half-way house for a season. So settled, why, for a thousand reasons one must keep one’s hand in.
There were men in plenty, from twenty year old Archie to the uncertain decades of Mr. Skee. Idly amusing herself, she qu
estioned that gentleman indirectly as to his age, drawing from him astounding memories of the previous century.
When confronted with historic proof that the events he described were over a hundred years passed, he would apologize, admitting that he had no memory for dates. She owned one day, with gentle candor, to being thirty-three.
“That must seem quite old to a man like you, Mr. Skee. I feel very old sometimes!” She lifted large eyes to him, and drew her filmy scarf around her shoulders.
“Your memory must be worse than mine, ma’am,” he replied, “and work the same way. You’ve sure got ten or twenty years added on superfluous! Now me!” He shook his head; “I don’t remember when I was born at all. And losin’ my folks so young, and the family Bible — I don’t expect I ever shall. But I ‘low I’m all of ninety-seven.”
This being palpably impossible, and as the only local incidents he could recall in his youth were quite dateless adventures among the Indians, she gave it up. Why Mr. Skee should have interested her at all was difficult to say, unless it was the appeal to his uncertainty — he was at least a game fish, if not edible.
Of the women she met, Susie and Vivian were far the most attractive, wherefore Mrs. St. Cloud, with subtle sympathy and engaging frankness, fairly cast Mr. Saunders in Susie’s arms, and vice versa, as opportunity occurred.
Morton she rather snubbed, treated him as a mere boy, told tales of his childhood that were in no way complimentary — so that he fled from her.
With Vivian she renewed her earlier influence to a great degree.
With some inquiry and more intuition she discovered what it was that had chilled the girl’s affection for her.
“I don’t wonder, my dear child,” she said; “I never told you of that — I never speak of it to anyone.... It was one of the—” she shivered slightly— “darkest griefs of a very dark time.... He was a beautiful boy.... I never dreamed — —”
The slow tears rose in her beautiful eyes till they shone like shimmering stars.
“Heaven send no such tragedy may ever come into your life, dear!”
She reached a tender hand to clasp the girl’s. “I am so glad of your happiness!”
Vivian was silent. As a matter of fact, she was not happy enough to honestly accept sympathy. Mrs. St. Cloud mistook her attitude, or seemed to.
“I suppose you still blame me. Many people did. I often blame myself. One cannot be too careful. It’s a terrible responsibility, Vivian — to have a man love you.”
The girl’s face grew even more somber. That was one thing which was troubling her.
“But your life is all before you,” pursued the older woman. “Your dream has come true! How happy — how wonderfully happy you must be!”
“I am not, not really,” said the girl. “At least — —”
“I know — I know; I understand,” Mrs. St. Cloud nodded with tender wisdom. “You are not sure. Is not that it?”
That was distinctly “it,” and Vivian so agreed.
“There is no other man?”
“Not the shadow of one!” said the girl firmly. And as her questioner had studied the field and made up her mind to the same end, she believed her.
“Then you must not mind this sense of uncertainty. It always happens. It is part of the morning clouds of maidenhood, my dear — it vanishes with the sunrise!” And she smiled beatifically.
Then the girl unburdened herself of her perplexities. She could always express herself so easily to this sympathetic friend.
“There are so many things that I — dislike — about him,” she said. “Habits of speech — of manners. He is not — not what I — —”
She paused.
“Not all the Dream! Ah! My dear child, they never are! We are given these beautiful ideals to guard and guide us; but the real is never quite the same. But when a man’s soul opens to you — when he loves — these small things vanish. They can be changed — you will change them.”
“Yes — he says so,” Vivian admitted. “He says that he knows that he is — unworthy — and has done wrong things. But so have I, for that matter.”
Mrs. St. Cloud agreed with her. “I am glad you feel that, my dear. Men have their temptations — their vices — and we good women are apt to be hard on them. But have we no faults? Ah, my dear, I have seen good women — young girls, like yourself — ruin a man’s whole life by — well, by heartlessness; by lack of understanding. Most young men do things they become ashamed of when they really love. And in the case of a motherless boy like this — lonely, away from his home, no good woman’s influence about — what else could we expect? But you can make a new man of him. A glorious work!”
“That’s what he says. I’m not so sure—” The girl hesitated.
“Not sure you can? Oh, my child, it is the most beautiful work on earth! To see from year to year a strong, noble character grow under your helping hand! To be the guiding star, the inspiration of a man’s life. To live to hear him say:
“‘Ah, who am I that God should bow
From heaven to choose a wife for me?
What have I done He should endow
My home with thee?’”
There was a silence.
Vivian’s dark eyes shone with appreciation for the tender beauty of the lines, the lovely thought. Then she arose and walked nervously across the floor, returning presently.
“Mrs. St. Cloud — —”
“Call me Adela, my dear.”
“Adela — dear Adela — you — you have been married. I have no mother. Tell me, ought not there to be more — more love? I’m fond of Morton, of course, and I do want to help him — but surely, if I loved him — I should feel happier — more sure!”
“The first part of love is often very confusing, my dear. I’ll tell you how it is: just because you are a woman grown and feel your responsibilities, especially here, where you have so many men friends, you keep Morton at a distance. Then the external sort of cousinly affection you have for him rather blinds you to other feelings. But I have not forgotten — and I’m sure you have not — the memory of that hot, sweet night so long ago; the world swimming in summer moonlight and syringa sweetness; the stillness everywhere — and your first kiss!”
Vivian started to her feet. She moved to the window and stood awhile; came back and kissed her friend warmly, and went away without another word.
The lady betook herself to her toilet, and spent some time on it, for there was one of Miss Peeder’s classes that night.
Mrs. St. Cloud danced with many, but most with Mr. Dykeman; no woman in the room had her swimming grace of motion, and yet, with all the throng of partners about her she had time to see Susie’s bright head bobbing about beneath Mr. Saunders down-bent, happy face, and Vivian, with her eyes cast down, dancing with Morton, whose gaze never left her. He was attention itself, he brought her precisely the supper she liked, found her favorite corner to rest in, took her to sit on the broad piazza between dances, remained close to her, still talking earnestly, when all the outsiders had gone.
Vivian found it hard to sleep that night. All that he had said of his new hope, new power, new courage, bore out Mrs. St. Cloud’s bright promise of a new-built life. And some way, as she had listened and did not forbid, the touch of his hand, the pressure of his arm, grew warmer and brought back the memories of that summer night so long ago.
He had begged hard for a kiss before he left her, and she quite had to tear herself away, as Susie drifted in, also late; and Aunt Orella said they must all go to bed right away — she was tired if they were not.
She did look tired. This dance seemed somehow less agreeable to her than had others. She took off her new prettinesses and packed them away in a box in the lower drawer.
“I’m an old fool!” she said. “Trying to dress up like a girl. I’m ashamed of myself!” Quite possibly she did not sleep well either, yet she had no room-mate to keep her awake by babbling on, as Susie did to Vivian.
Her discourse was firs
t, last and always about Jimmie Saunders. He had said this, he had looked that, he had done so; and what did Vivian think he meant? And wasn’t he handsome — and so clever!
Little Susie cuddled close and finally dropped off asleep, her arms around Vivian. But the older girl counted the hours; her head, or her heart, in a whirl.
Morton Elder was wakeful, too. So much so that he arose with a whispered expletive, took his shoes in his hand, and let himself softly out for a tramp in the open.
This was not the first of his love affairs, but with all his hot young heart he wished it was. He stood still, alone on the high stretches of moonlit mesa and looked up at the measureless, brilliant spaces above him.
“I’ll keep straight — if I can have her!” he repeated under his breath. “I will! I will!”
It had never occurred to him before to be ashamed of the various escapades of his youth. He had done no more than others, many others. None of “the boys” he associated with intended to do what was wrong; they were quite harsh in judgment of those who did, according to their standards. None of them had been made acquainted with the social or pathological results of their amusements, and the mere “Zutritt ist Verboten” had never impressed them at all.
But now the gentler influences of his childhood, even the narrow morality of Bainville, rose in pleasant colors in his mind. He wished he had saved his money, instead of spending it faster than it came in. He wished he had kept out of poker and solo and barrooms generally. He wished, in a dumb, shamed way, that he could come to her as clean as she was. But he threw his shoulders back and lifted his head determinedly.
“I’ll be good to her,” he determined; “I’ll make her a good husband.”
In the days that followed his devotion was as constant as before, but more intelligent. His whole manner changed and softened. He began to read the books she liked, and to talk about them. He was gentler to everyone, more polite, even to the waitresses, tender and thoughtful of his aunt and sister. Vivian began to feel a pride in him, and in her influence, deepening as time passed.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 28
