Mrs. Pettigrew, visiting the library on one of her frequent errands, was encountered there and devotedly escorted home by Mr. Skee.
“That is a most fascinating young lady who has Mr. Dykeman’s room; don’t you think so, ma’am?” quoth he.
“I do not,” said Mrs. Pettigrew. “Young! She’s not so young as you are — nothing like — never was!”
He threw back his head and laughed his queer laugh, which looked so uproarious and made so little noise.
“She certainly is a charmer, whatever her age may be,” he continued.
“Glad you think so, Mr. Skee. It may be time you lost a fourth!”
“Lost a fourth? What in the — Hesperides!”
“If you can’t guess what, you needn’t ask me!” said the lady, with some tartness. “But for my own part I prefer the Apaches. Good afternoon, Mr. Skee.”
She betook herself to her room with unusual promptness, and refused to be baited forth by any kind of offered amusement.
“It’s right thoughtful of Andy Dykeman, gettin’ up this entertainment for Mrs. St. Cloud, isn’t it, Mrs. Elder?” Thus Mr. Skee to Miss Orella a little later.
“I don’t think it is Mr. Dykeman’s idea at all,” she told him. “It’s those boys over there. They are all wild about her, quite naturally.” She gave a little short sigh. “If Dr. Hale were at home I doubt if he would encourage it.”
“I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t, Ma’am. He’s certainly down on the fair sex, even such a peacherino as this one. But with Andy, now, it’s different. He is a man of excellent judgment.”
“I guess all men’s judgment is pretty much alike in some ways,” said Miss Orella, oracularly. She seemed busy and constrained, and Mr. Skee drifted off and paid court as best he might to Dr. Bellair.
“Charmed to find you at home, Ma’am,” he said; “or shall I say at office?”
“Call it what you like, Mr. Skee; it’s been my home for a good many years now.”
“It’s a mighty fine thing for a woman, livin’ alone, to have a business, seems to me,” remarked the visitor.
“It’s a fine thing for any woman, married or single, to my mind,” she answered. “I wish I could get Vivian Lane started in that kindergarten she talks about.”
“There’s kids enough, and goodness knows they need a gardener! What’s lackin’? House room?”
“She thinks she’s not really competent. She has no regular certificate, you see. Her parents would never let go of her long enough,” the doctor explained.
“Some parents are pretty graspin’, ain’t they? To my mind, Miss Vivian would be a better teacher than lots of the ticketed ones. She’s got the natural love of children.”
“Yes, and she has studied a great deal. She just needs an impetus.”
“Perhaps if she thought there was ‘a call’ she might be willing. I doubt if the families here realize what they’re missin’. Aint there some among your patients who could be stirred up a little?”
The doctor thought there were, and he suggested several names from his apparently unlimited acquaintance.
“I believe in occupation for the young. It takes up their minds,” said Mr. Skee, and departed with serenity. He strolled over to Dr. Hale’s fence and leaned upon it, watching the preparations. Mr. Dykeman, in his shirt-sleeves, stood about offering suggestions, while the young men swarmed here and there with poles and stepladders, hanging Chinese lanterns.
“Hello, Elmer; come in and make yourself useful,” called Mr. Dykeman.
“I’ll come in, but I’ll be switched if I’ll be useful,” he replied, laying a large hand on the fence and vaulting his long legs over it with an agility amazing in one of his alleged years. “You all are sure putting yourself out for this occasion. Is it somebody’s birthday?”
“No; it’s a get-up of these youngsters. They began by wanting Mrs. St. Cloud to come over to tea — afternoon tea — and now look at this!”
“Did she misunderstand the invitation as bad as that?”
“O, no; just a gradual change of plan. One thing leads to another, you know. Here, Archie! That bush won’t hold the line. Put it on the willow.”
“I see,” said Mr. Skee; “and, as we’re quotin’ proverbs, I might remark that ‘While the cat’s away the mice will play.’”
Mr. Dykeman smiled. “It’s rather a good joke on Hale, isn’t it?”
“Would be if he should happen to come home — and find this hen-party on.” They both chuckled.
“I guess he’s good for a week yet,” said Mr. Dykeman. “Those medical associations do a lot of talking. Higher up there, George — a good deal higher.”
He ran over to direct the boys, and Mr. Skee, hands behind him, strolled up and down the garden, wearing a meditative smile. He and Andrew Dykeman had been friends for many long years.
Dr. Bellair used her telephone freely after Mr. Skee’s departure, making notes and lists of names. Late in the afternoon she found Vivian in the hall.
“I don’t see much of you these days, Miss Lane,” she said.
The girl flushed. Since Mrs. St. Cloud’s coming and their renewed intimacy she had rather avoided the doctor, and that lady had kept herself conspicuously out of the way.
“Don’t call me Miss Lane; I’m Vivian — to my friends.”
“I hope you count me a friend?” said Dr. Bellair, gravely.
“I do, Doctor, and I’m proud to. But so many things have been happening lately,” she laughed, a little nervously. “The truth is, I’m really ashamed to talk to you; I’m so lazy.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to speak about. Aren’t you ready to begin that little school of yours?”
“I’d like to — I should, really,” said the girl. “But, somehow, I don’t know how to set about it.”
“I’ve been making some inquiries,” said the doctor. “There are six or eight among my patients that you could count on — about a dozen young ones. How many could you handle?”
“Oh, I oughtn’t to have more than twenty in any case. A dozen would be plenty to begin with. Do you think I could count on them — really?”
“I tell you what I’ll do,” her friend offered; “I’ll take you around and introduce you to any of them you don’t know. Most of ’em come here to the dances. There’s Mrs. Horsford and Mrs. Blake, and that little Mary Jackson with the twins. You’ll find they are mostly friends.”
“You are awfully kind,” said the girl. “I wish” — her voice took on a sudden note of intensity— “I do wish I were strong, like you, Dr. Bellair.”
“I wasn’t very strong — at your age — my child. I did the weakest of weak things—”
Vivian was eager to ask her what it was, but a door opened down one side passage and the doctor quietly disappeared down the other, as Mrs. St. Cloud came out.
“I thought I heard your voice,” she said. “And Miss Elder’s, wasn’t it?”
“No; it was Dr. Bellair.”
“A strong character, and a fine physician, I understand. I’m sorry she does not like me.”
Mrs. St. Cloud’s smile made it seem impossible that anyone should dislike her.
Vivian could not, however, deny the fact, and was not diplomatic enough to smooth it over, which her more experienced friend proceeded to do.
“It is temperamental,” she said gently. “If we had gone to school together we would not have been friends. She is strong, downright, progressive; I am weaker, more sensitive, better able to bear than to do. You must find her so stimulating.”
“Yes,” the girl said. “She was talking to me about my school.”
“Your school?”
“Didn’t you know I meant to have a sort of kindergarten? We planned it even before starting; but Miss Elder seemed to need me at first, and since then — things — have happened — —”
“And other things will happen, dear child! Quite other and different things.”
The lady’s smile was bewitching. Vivian flushed slowl
y under her gaze.
“Oh, my dear, I watched you dancing together! You don’t mind my noticing, do you?”
Her voice was suddenly tender and respectful. “I do not wish to intrude, but you are very dear to me. Come into my room — do — and tell me what to wear to-night.”
Mrs. St. Cloud’s clothes had always been a delight to Vivian. They were what she would have liked to wear — and never quite have dared, under the New England fear of being “too dressy.” Her own beauty was kept trimly neat, like a closed gentian.
Her friend was in the gayest mood. She showed her a trunkful of delicate garments and gave her a glittering embroidered scarf, which the girl rapturously admired, but declared she would never have the courage to wear.
“You shall wear it this very night,” declared the lady. “Here — show me what you’ve got. You shall be as lovely as you are, for once!”
So Vivian brought out her modest wardrobe, and the older woman chose a gown of white, insisted on shortening the sleeves to fairy wings of lace, draped the scarf about her white neck, raised the soft, close-bound hair to a regal crown, and put a shining star in it, and added a string of pearls on the white throat.
“Look at yourself now, child!” she said.
Vivian looked, in the long depths of Mr. Dykeman’s mirror. She knew that she had beauty, but had never seen herself so brilliantly attired. Erect, slender, graceful, the long lines of her young body draped in soft white, and her dark head, crowned and shining, poised on its white column, rising from the shimmering lace. Her color deepened as she looked, and added to the picture.
“You shall wear it to-night! You shall!” cried her admiring friend. “To please me — if no one else!”
Whether to please her or someone else, Vivian consented, the two arriving rather late at the garden party across the way.
Mr. Dykeman, looking very tall and fine in his evening clothes, was a cordial host, ably seconded by the eager boys about him.
The place was certainly a credit to their efforts, the bare rooms being turned to bowers by vines and branches brought from the mountains, and made fragrant by piled flowers. Lights glimmered through colored shades among the leaves, and on the dining table young Peters, who came from Connecticut, had rigged a fountain by means of some rubber tubing and an auger hole in the floor. This he had made before Mr. Dykeman caught him, and vowed Dr. Hale would not mind. Mr. Peters’ enjoyment of the evening, however, was a little dampened by his knowledge of the precarious nature of this arrangement. He danced attendance on Mrs. St. Cloud, with the others, but wore a preoccupied expression, and stole in once or twice from the lit paths outside to make sure that all was running well. It was well to and during supper time, and the young man was complimented on his ingenuity.
“Reminds me of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon,” said Mr. Skee, sentimentally.
“Why?” asked Mrs. Pettigrew.
“Oh, why, Ma’am? How can a fellow say why?” he protested. “Because it is so — so efflorescent, I suppose.”
“Reminds me of a loose faucet,” said she, sotto voce, to Dr. Bellair.
Mr. Peters beamed triumphantly, but in the very hour of his glory young Burns, hastening to get a cup of coffee for his fair one, tripped over the concealed pipe, and the fountain poured forth its contributions among the feet of the guests.
This was a minor misadventure, however, hurting no one’s feeling but Mr. Peters’, and Mrs. St. Cloud was so kind to him in consequence that he was envied by all the others.
Mr. Dykeman was attentive to his guests, old and young, but Mrs. Pettigrew had not her usual smile for him; Miss Orella declined to dance, alleging that she was too tired, and Dr. Bellair somewhat dryly told him that he need not bother with her. He was hardly to be blamed if he turned repeatedly to Mrs. St. Cloud, whose tactful sweetness was always ready. She had her swarm of young admirers about her, yet never failed to find a place for her host, a smile and a word of understanding.
Her eyes were everywhere. She watched Mr. Skee waltzing with the youngest, providing well-chosen refreshments for Miss Orella, gallantly escorting Grandma to see the “Lovers’ Lane” they had made at the end of the garden. Its twin lines of lights were all outside; within was grateful shadow.
Mrs. St. Cloud paced through this fragrant arbor with each and every one of the receiving party, uttering ever-fresh expressions of admiration and gratitude for their kind thoughtfulness, especially to Mr. Dykeman.
When she saw Susie and Mr. Saunders go in at the farther end, she constituted herself a sort of protective agency to keep every one else out, holding them in play with various pleasant arts.
And Vivian? When she arrived there was a little gasp from Morton, who was waiting for her near the door. She was indeed a sight to make a lover’s heart leap. He had then, as it were, surrounded her. Vainly did the others ask for dances. Morton had unblushingly filled out a card with his own name and substituted it for the one she handed him. She protested, but the music sounded and he whirled her away before she could expostulate to any avail.
His eyes spoke his admiration, and for once his tongue did not spoil the impression.
Half laughing and half serious, she let him monopolize her, but quite drove him away when Mr. Dykeman claimed his dance.
“All filled up!” said Morton for her, showing his card.
“Mine was promised yesterday, was it not, Miss Lane?” said the big man, smiling. And she went with him. He took her about the garden later, gravely admiring and attentive, and when Susie fairly rushed into her arms, begging her to come and talk with her, he left them both in a small rose-crowned summer-house and went back to Mrs. St. Cloud.
“Oh, Vivian, Vivian! What do you think!” Susie’s face was buried on Vivian’s shoulder. “I’m engaged!”
Vivian held her close and kissed her soft hair. Her joyous excitement was contagious.
“He’s the nicest man in the world!” breathed Susie, “and he loves me!”
“We all supposed he did. Didn’t you know it before?”
“Oh, yes, in a way; but, Vivian — he kissed me!”
“Well, child, have you never in all your little life been kissed before?”
Susie lifted a rosy, tearful face for a moment.
“Never, never, never!” she said. “I thought I had, but I haven’t! Oh, I am so happy!”
“What’s up?” inquired Morton, appearing with a pink lantern in his hand, in impatient search for his adored one. “Susie — crying?”
“No, I’m not,” she said, and ran forthwith back to the house, whence Jimmy was bringing her ice cream.
Vivian started to follow her.
“Oh, no, Vivian; don’t go. Wait.” He dropped the lantern and took her hands. The paper cover flared up, showing her flushed cheeks and starry eyes. He stamped out the flame, and in the sudden darkness caught her in his arms.
For a moment she allowed him, turning her head away. He kissed her white shoulder.
“No! No, Morton — don’t! You mustn’t!”
She tried to withdraw herself, but he held her fast. She could feel the pounding of his heart.
“Oh, Vivian, don’t say no! You will marry me, won’t you? Some day, when I’m more worth while. Say you will! Some day — if not now. I love you so; I need you so! Say yes, Vivian.”
He was breathing heavily. His arms held her motionless. She still kept her face turned from him.
“Let me go, Morton; let me go! You hurt me!”
“Say yes, dear, and I’ll let you go — for a little while.”
“Yes,” said Vivian.
The ground jarred beside them, as a tall man jumped the hedge boundary. He stood a moment, staring.
“Well, is this my house, or Coney Island?” they heard him say. And then Morton swore softly to himself as Vivian left him and came out.
“Good evening, Dr. Hale,” she said, a little breathlessly. “We weren’t expecting you so soon.”
“I should judge not,” he answered
. “What’s up, anyhow?”
“The boys — and Mr. Dykeman — are giving a garden party for Mrs. St. Cloud.”
“For whom?”
“For Adela St. Cloud. She is visiting us. Aren’t you coming in?”
“Not now,” he said, and was gone without another word.
CHAPTER IX.
CONSEQUENCES.
You may have a fondness for grapes that are green,
And the sourness that greenness beneath;
You may have a right
To a colic at night —
But consider your children’s teeth!
Dr. Hale retired from his gaily illuminated grounds in too much displeasure to consider the question of dignity. One suddenly acting cause was the news given him by Vivian. The other was the sight of Morton Elder’s face as he struck a match to light his cigarette.
Thus moved, and having entered and left his own grounds like a thief in the night, he proceeded to tramp in the high-lying outskirts of the town until every light in his house had gone out. Then he returned, let himself into his office, and lay there on a lounge until morning.
Vivian had come out so quickly to greet the doctor from obscure motives. She felt a sudden deep objection to being found there with Morton, a wish to appear as one walking about unconcernedly, and when that match glow made Morton’s face shine out prominently in the dark shelter, she, too, felt a sudden displeasure.
Without a word she went swiftly to the house, excused herself to her Grandmother, who nodded understandingly, and returned to The Cottonwoods, to her room. She felt that she must be alone and think; think of that irrevocable word she had uttered, and its consequences.
She sat at her window, rather breathless, watching the rows of pink lanterns swaying softly on the other side of the street; hearing the lively music, seeing young couples leave the gate and stroll off homeward.
Susie’s happiness came more vividly to mind than her own. It was so freshly joyous, so pure, so perfectly at rest. She could not feel that way, could not tell with decision exactly how she did feel. But if this was happiness, it was not as she had imagined it. She thought of that moonlit summer night so long ago, and the memory of its warm wonder seemed sweeter than the hasty tumult and compulsion of to-night.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 29
