“He loves me,” said the girl with gentle stubbornness. She saw Morton’s eyes, as she had so often seen them lately; full of adoration and manly patience. She felt his hand, as she had felt it so often lately, holding hers, stealing about her waist, sometimes bringing her fingers to his lips for a strong slow kiss which she could not forget for hours.
She raised her head. A new wave of feeling swept over her. She saw a vista of self-sacrificing devotion, foregoing much, forgiving much, but rejoicing in the companionship of a noble life, a soul rebuilt, a love that was passionately grateful. Her eyes met those of her friend fairly. “And I love him!” she said.
“Will you tell that to your crippled children?” asked Dr. Bellair. “Will they understand it if they are idiots? Will they see it if they are blind? Will it satisfy you when they are dead?”
The girl shrank before her.
“You shall understand,” said the doctor. “This is no case for idealism and exalted emotion. Do you want a son like Theophile?”
“I thought you said — they didn’t have any.”
“Some don’t — that is one result. Another result — of gonorrhea — is to have children born blind. Their eyes may be saved, with care. But it is not a motherly gift for one’s babies — blindness. You may have years and years of suffering yourself — any or all of those diseases ‘peculiar to women’ as we used to call them! And we pitied the men who ‘were so good to their invalid wives’! You may have any number of still-born children, year after year. And every little marred dead face would remind you that you allowed it! And they may be deformed and twisted, have all manner of terrible and loathsome afflictions, they and their children after them, if they have any. And many do! dear girl, don’t you see that’s wicked?”
Vivian was silent, her two hands wrung together; her whole form shivering with emotion.
“Don’t think that you are ‘ruining his life,’” said the doctor kindly. “He ruined it long ago — poor boy!”
The girl turned quickly at the note of sympathy.
“They don’t know either,” her friend went on. “What could Miss Orella do, poor little saint, to protect a lively young fellow like that! All they have in their scatter-brained heads is ‘it’s naughty but it’s nice!’ And so they rush off and ruin their whole lives — and their wives’ — and their children’s. A man don’t have to be so very wicked, either, understand. Just one mis-step may be enough for infection.”
“Even if it did break his heart, and yours — even if you both lived single, he because it is the only decent thing he can do now, you because of a misguided sense of devotion; that would be better than to commit this plain sin. Beware of a biological sin, my dear; for it there is no forgiveness.”
She waited a moment and went on, as firmly and steadily as she would have held the walls of a wound while she placed the stitches.
“If you two love each other so nobly and devotedly that it is higher and truer and more lasting than the ordinary love of men and women, you might be ‘true’ to one another for a lifetime, you see. And all that friendship can do, exalted influence, noble inspiration — that is open to you.”
Vivian’s eyes were wide and shining. She saw a possible future, not wholly unbearable.
“Has he kissed you yet?” asked the doctor suddenly.
“No,” she said. “That is — except — —”
“Don’t let him. You might catch it. Your friendship must be distant. Well, shall we be going back? I’m sorry, my dear. I did hate awfully to do it. But I hated worse to see you go down those awful steps from which there is no returning.”
“Yes,” said Vivian. “Thank you. Won’t you go on, please? I’ll come later.”
An hour the girl sat there, with the clear blue sky above her, the soft steady wind rustling the leaves, the little birds that hopped and pecked and flirted their tails so near her motionless figure.
She thought and thought, and through all the tumult of ideas it grew clearer to her that the doctor was right. She might sacrifice herself. She had no right to sacrifice her children.
A feeling of unreasoning horror at this sudden outlook into a field of unknown evil was met by her clear perception that if she was old enough to marry, to be a mother, she was surely old enough to know these things; and not only so, but ought to know them.
Shy, sensitive, delicate in feeling as the girl was, she had a fair and reasoning mind.
CHAPTER X.
DETERMINATION.
You may shut your eyes with a bandage,
The while world vanishes soon;
You may open your eyes at a knothole
And see the sun and moon.
It must have grieved anyone who cared for Andrew Dykeman, to see Mrs. St. Cloud’s manner toward him change with his changed circumstances — she had been so much with him, had been so kind to him; kinder than Carston comment “knew for a fact,” but not kinder than it surmised.
Then, though his dress remained as quietly correct, his face assumed a worn and anxious look, and he no longer offered her long auto rides or other expensive entertainment. She saw men on the piazza stop talking as he came by, and shake their heads as they looked after him; but no one would tell her anything definite till she questioned Mr. Skee.
“I am worried about Mr. Dykeman,” she said to this ever-willing confidant, beckoning him to a chair beside her.
A chair, to the mind of Mr. Skee, seemed to be for pictorial uses, only valuable as part of the composition. He liked one to stand beside, to put a foot on, to lean over from behind, arms on the back; to tip up in front of him as if he needed a barricade; and when he was persuaded to sit in one, it was either facing the back, cross-saddle and bent forward, or — and this was the utmost decorum he was able to approach — tipped backward against the wall.
“He does not look well,” said the lady, “you are old friends — do tell me; if it is anything wherein a woman’s sympathy would be of service?”
“I’m afraid not, Ma’am,” replied Mr. Skee darkly. “Andy’s hard hit in a worse place than his heart. I wouldn’t betray a friend’s confidence for any money, Ma’am; but this is all over town. It’ll go hard with Andy, I’m afraid, at his age.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she whispered. “So sorry! But surely with a man of his abilities it will be only a temporary reverse!—”
“Dunno ‘bout the abilities — not in this case. Unless he has ability enough to discover a mine bigger’n the one he’s lost! You see, Ma’am, it’s this way,” and he sunk his voice to a confidential rumble. “Andy had a bang-up mine, galena ore — not gold, you understand, but often pays better. And he kept on putting the money it made back into it to make more. Then, all of a sudden, it petered out! No more eggs in that basket. ‘Course he can’t sell it — now. And last year he refused half a million. Andy’s sure down on his luck.”
“But he will recover! You western men are so wonderful! He will find another mine!”
“O yes, he may! Certainly he may, Ma’am. Not that he found this one — he just bought it.”
“Well — he can buy another, there are more, aren’t there?”
“Sure there are! There’s as good mines in the earth as ever was salted — that’s my motto! But Andy’s got no more money to buy any mines. What he had before he inherited. No, Ma’am,” said Mr. Skee, with a sigh. “I’m afraid its all up with Andy Dykeman financially!”
This he said more audibly; and Miss Elder and Miss Pettigrew, sitting in their parlor, could not help hearing. Miss Elder gave a little gasp and clasped her hands tightly, but Miss Pettigrew arose, and came outside.
“What’s this about Mr. Dykeman?” she questioned abruptly. “Has he had losses?”
“There now,” said Mr. Skee, remorsefully, “I never meant to give him away like that. Mrs. Pettigrew, Ma’am, I must beg you not to mention it further. I was only satisfyin’ this lady here, in answer to sympathetic anxiety, as to what was making Andrew H. Dykeman so down in the mouth. Yes�
��m — he’s lost every cent he had in the world, or is likely to have. Of course, among friends, he’ll get a job fast enough, bookkeepin’, or something like that — though he’s not a brilliant man, Andy isn’t. You needn’t to feel worried, Mrs. Pettigrew; he’ll draw a salary all right, to the end of time; but he’s out of the game of Hot Finance.”
Mrs. Pettigrew regarded the speaker with a scintillating eye. He returned her look with unflinching seriousness. “Have a chair, Ma’am,” he said. “Let me bring out your rocker. Sit down and chat with us.”
“No, thanks,” said the old lady. “It seems to me a little — chilly, out here. I’ll go in.”
She went in forthwith, to find Miss Orella furtively wiping her eyes.
“What are you crying about, Orella Elder! Just because a man’s lost his money? That happens to most of ’em now and then.”
“Yes, I know — but you heard what he said. Oh, I can’t believe it! To think of his having to be provided for by his friends — and having to take a small salary — after being so well off! I am so sorry for him!”
Miss Elder’s sorrow was increased to intensity by noting Mrs. St. Cloud’s changed attitude. Mr. Dykeman made no complaint, uttered no protest, gave no confidences; but it soon appeared that he was working in an office; and furthermore that this position was given him by Mr. Skee.
That gentleman, though discreetly reticent as to his own affairs, now appeared in far finer raiment than he had hitherto affected; developed a pronounced taste in fobs and sleeve buttons; and a striking harmony in socks and scarfs.
Men talked openly of him; no one seemed to know anything definite, but all were certain that “Old Skee must have struck it rich.”
Mr. Skee kept his own counsel; but became munificent in gifts and entertainments. He produced two imposing presents for Susie; one a “betrothal gift,” the other a conventional wedding present.
“This is a new one to me,” he said when he offered her the first; “but I understand it’s the thing. In fact I’m sure of it — for I’ve consulted Mrs. St. Cloud and she helped me to buy ‘em.”
He consulted Mrs. St. Cloud about a dinner he proposed giving to Mr. Saunders— “one of these Farewell to Egypt affairs,” he said. “Not that I imagine Jim Saunders ever was much of a — Egyptian — but then —— !”
He consulted her also about Vivian — did she not think the girl looked worn and ill? Wouldn’t it be a good thing to send her off for a trip somewhere?
He consulted her about a library; said he had always wanted a library of his own, but the public ones were somewhat in his way. How many books did she think a man ought really to own — to spend his declining years among. Also, and at considerable length he consulted her about the best possible place of residence.
“I’m getting to be an old man, Mrs. St. Cloud,” he remarked meditatively; “and I’m thinking of buying and building somewhere. But it’s a ticklish job. Lo! these many years I’ve been perfectly contented to live wherever I was at; and now that I’m considering a real Home — blamed if I know where to put it! I’m distracted between A Model Farm, and A Metropolitan Residence. Which would you recommend, Ma’am?”
The lady’s sympathy and interest warmed to Mr. Skee as they cooled to Mr. Dykeman, not with any blameworthy or noticeable suddenness, but in soft graduations, steady and continuous. The one wore his new glories with an air of modest pride; making no boast of affluence; and the other accepted that which had befallen him without rebellion.
Miss Orella’s tender heart was deeply touched. As fast as Mrs. St. Cloud gave the cold shoulder to her friend, she extended a warm hand; when they chatted about Mr. Skee’s visible success, she spoke bravely of the beauty of limited means; and when it was time to present her weekly bills to the boarders, she left none in Mr. Dykeman’s room. This he took for an oversight at first; but when he found the omission repeated on the following week, he stood by his window smiling thoughtfully for some time, and then went in search of Miss Orella.
She sat by her shaded lamp, alone, knitting a silk tie which was promptly hidden as he entered. He stood by the door looking at her in spite of her urging him to be seated, observing the warm color in her face, the graceful lines of her figure, the gentle smile that was so unfailingly attractive. Then he came forward, calmly inquiring, “Why haven’t you sent me my board bill?”
She lifted her eyes to his, and dropped them, flushing. “I — excuse me; but I thought — —”
“You thought I couldn’t conveniently pay it?”
“O please excuse me! I didn’t mean to be — to do anything you wouldn’t like. But I did hear that you were — temporarily embarrassed. And I want you to feel sure, Mr. Dykeman, that to your real friends it makes no difference in the least. And if — for a while that is — it should be a little more convenient to — to defer payment, please feel perfectly at liberty to wait!”
She stood there blushing like a girl, her sweet eyes wet with shining tears that did not fall, full of tender sympathy for his misfortune.
“Have you heard that I’ve lost all my money?” he asked.
She nodded softly.
“And that I can’t ever get it back — shall have to do clerk’s work at a clerk’s salary — as long as I live?”
Again she nodded.
He took a step or two back and forth in the quiet parlor, and returned to her.
“Would you marry a poor man?” he asked in a low tender voice. “Would you marry a man not young, not clever, not rich, but who loved you dearly? You are the sweetest woman I ever saw, Orella Elder — will you marry me?”
She came to him, and he drew her close with a long sigh of utter satisfaction. “Now I am rich indeed,” he said softly.
She held him off a little. “Don’t talk about being rich. It doesn’t matter. If you like to live here — why this house will keep us both. If you’d rather have a little one — I can live so happily — on so little! And there is my own little home in Bainville — perhaps you could find something to do there. I don’t care the least in the world — so long as you love me!”
“I’ve loved you since I first set eyes on you,” he answered her. “To see the home you’ve made here for all of us was enough to make any man love you. But I thought awhile back that I hadn’t any chance — you weren’t jealous of that Artificial Fairy, were you?”
And conscientiously Miss Orella lied.
Carston society was pleased, but not surprised at Susie’s engagement; it was both pleased and surprised when Miss Elder’s was announced. Some there were who protested that they had seen it from the beginning; but disputatious friends taxed them with having prophesied quite otherwise.
Some thought Miss Elder foolish to take up with a man of full middle age, and with no prospects; and others attributed the foolishness to Mr. Dykeman, in marrying an old maid. Others again darkly hinted that he knew which side his bread was buttered— “and first-rate butter, too.” Adding that they “did hate to see a man sit around and let his wife keep boarders!”
In Bainville circles the event created high commotion. That one of their accumulated maidens, part of the Virgin Sacrifice of New England, which finds not even a Minotaur — had thus triumphantly escaped from their ranks and achieved a husband; this was flatly heretical. The fact that he was a poor man was the only mitigating circumstance, leaving it open to the more captious to criticize the lady sharply.
But the calm contentment of Andrew Dykeman’s face, and the decorous bliss of Miss Elder’s were untroubled by what anyone thought or said.
Little Susie was delighted, and teased for a double wedding; without success. “One was enough to attend to, at one time,” her aunt replied.
* * * * *
In all this atmosphere of wooings and weddings, Vivian walked apart, as one in a bad dream that could never end. That day when Dr. Bellair left her on the hill, left her alone in a strange new horrible world, was still glaring across her consciousness, the end of one life, the bar to any other
. Its small events were as clear to her as those which stand out so painfully on a day of death; all that led up to the pleasant walk, when an eager girl mounted the breezy height, and a sad-faced woman came down from it.
She had waited long and came home slowly, dreading to see a face she knew, dreading worst of all to see Morton. The boy she had known so long, the man she was beginning to know, had changed to an unbelievable horror; and the love which had so lately seemed real to her recoiled upon her heart with a sense of hopeless shame.
She wished — eagerly, desperately, she wished — she need never see him again. She thought of the man’s resource of running away — if she could just go, go at once, and write to him from somewhere.
Distant Bainville seemed like a haven of safety; even the decorous, narrow, monotony of its dim life had a new attraction. These terrors were not in Bainville, surely. Then the sickening thought crept in that perhaps they were — only they did not know it. Besides, she had no money to go with. If only she had started that little school sooner! Write to her father for money she would not. No, she must bear it here.
The world was discolored in the girl’s eyes. Love had become a horror and marriage impossible. She pushed the idea from her, impotently, as one might push at a lava flow.
In her wide reading she had learned in a vague way of “evil” — a distant undescribed evil which was in the world, and which must be avoided. She had known that there was such a thing as “sin,” and abhorred the very thought of it.
Morton’s penitential confessions had given no details; she had pictured him only as being “led astray,” as being “fast,” even perhaps “wicked.” Wickedness could be forgiven; and she had forgiven him, royally. But wickedness was one thing, disease was another. Forgiveness was no cure.
The burden of new knowledge so distressed her that she avoided the family entirely that evening, avoided Susie, went to her grandmother and asked if she might come and sleep on the lounge in her room.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 31
