“Surely, my child, glad to have you,” said Mrs. Pettigrew affectionately. “Better try my bed — there’s room a-plenty.”
The girl lay long with those old arms about her, crying quietly. Her grandmother asked no questions, only patted her softly from time to time, and said, “There! There!” in a pleasantly soothing manner. After some time she remarked, “If you want to say things, my dear, say ’em — anything you please.”
In the still darkness they talked long and intimately; and the wise old head straightened things out somewhat for the younger one.
“Doctors don’t realize how people feel about these matters,” said Mrs. Pettigrew. “They are so used to all kinds of ghastly things they forget that other folks can’t stand ‘em. She was too hard on you, dearie.”
But Vivian defended the doctor. “Oh, no, Grandma. She did it beautifully. And it hurt her so. She told me about her own — disappointment.”
“Yes, I remember her as a girl, you see. A fine sweet girl she was too. It was an awful blow — and she took it hard. It has made her bitter, I think, perhaps; that and the number of similar cases she had to cope with.”
“But, Grandma — is it — can it be as bad as she said? Seventy-five per cent! Three-quarters of — of everybody!”
“Not everybody dear, thank goodness. Our girls are mostly clean, and they save the race, I guess.”
“I don’t even want to see a man again!” said the girl with low intensity.
“Shouldn’t think you would, at first. But, dear child — just brace yourself and look it fair in the face! The world’s no worse than it was yesterday — just because you know more about it!”
“No,” Vivian admitted, “But it’s like uncovering a charnel house!” she shuddered.
“Never saw a charnel house myself,” said the old lady, “even with the lid on. But now see here child; you mustn’t feel as if all men were Unspeakable Villains. They are just ignorant boys — and nobody ever tells ’em the truth. Nobody used to know it, for that matter. All this about gonorrhea is quite newly discovered — it has set the doctors all by the ears. Having women doctors has made a difference too — lots of difference.”
“Besides,” she went on after a pause, “things are changing very fast now, since the general airing began. Dr. Prince Morrow in New York, with that society of his — (I can never remember the name — makes me think of tooth brushes) has done much; and the popular magazines have taken it up. You must have seen some of those articles, Vivian.”
“I have,” the girl said, “but I couldn’t bear to read them — ever.”
“That’s it!” responded her grandmother, tartly; “we bring up girls to think it is not proper to know anything about the worst danger before them. Proper! — Why my dear child, the young girls are precisely the ones to know! it’s no use to tell a woman who has buried all her children — or wishes she had! — that it was all owing to her ignorance, and her husband’s. You have to know beforehand if it’s to do you any good.”
After awhile she continued: “Women are waking up to this all over the country, now. Nice women, old and young. The women’s clubs and congresses are taking it up, as they should. Some states have passed laws requiring a medical certificate — a clean bill of health — to go with a license to marry. You can see that’s reasonable! A man has to be examined to enter the army or navy, even to get his life insured; Marriage and Parentage are more important than those things! And we are beginning to teach children and young people what they ought to know. There’s hope for us!”
“But Grandma — it’s so awful — about the children.”
“Yes dear, yes. It’s pretty awful. But don’t feel as if we were all on the brink of perdition. Remember that we’ve got a whole quarter of the men to bank on. That’s a good many, in this country. We’re not so bad as Europe — not yet — in this line. Then just think of this, child. We have lived, and done splendid things all these years, even with this load of disease on us. Think what we can do when we’re rid of it! And that’s in the hands of woman, my dear — as soon as we know enough. Don’t be afraid of knowledge. When we all know about this we can stop it! Think of that. We can religiously rid the world of all these— ‘undesirable citizens.’”
“How, Grandma?”
“Easy enough, my dear. By not marrying them.”
There was a lasting silence.
Grandma finally went to sleep, making a little soft whistling sound through her parted lips; but Vivian lay awake for long slow hours.
* * * * *
It was one thing to make up her own mind, though not an easy one, by any means; it was quite another to tell Morton.
He gave her no good opportunity. He did not say again, “Will you marry me?” So that she could say, “No,” and be done with it. He did not even say, “When will you marry me?” to which she could answer “Never!” He merely took it for granted that she was going to, and continued to monopolize her as far as possible, with all pleasant and comfortable attentions.
She forced the situation even more sharply than she wished, by turning from him with a shiver when he met her on the stairs one night and leaned forward as if to kiss her.
He stopped short.
“What is the matter, Vivian — are you ill?”
“No—” She could say nothing further, but tried to pass him.
“Look here — there is something. You’ve been — different — for several days. Have I done anything you don’t like?”
“Oh, Morton!” His question was so exactly to the point; and so exquisitely inadequate! He had indeed.
“I care too much for you to let anything stand between us now,” he went on.
“Come, there’s no one in the upper hall — come and ‘tell me the worst.’”
“As well now as ever.” thought the girl. Yet when they sat on the long window seat, and he turned his handsome face toward her, with that newer, better look on it, she could not believe that this awful thing was true.
“Now then — What is wrong between us?” he said.
She answered only, “I will tell you the worst, Morton. I cannot marry you — ever.”
He whitened to the lips, but asked quietly, “Why?”
“Because you have — Oh, I cannot tell you!”
“I have a right to know, Vivian. You have made a man of me. I love you with my whole heart. What have I done — that I have not told you?”
Then she recalled his contrite confessions; and contrasted what he had told her with what he had not; with the unspeakable fate to which he would have consigned her — and those to come; and a sort of holy rage rose within her.
“You never told me of the state of your health, Morton.”
It was done. She looked to see him fall at her feet in utter abashment, but he did nothing of the kind. What he did do astonished her beyond measure. He rose to his feet, with clenched fists.
“Has that damned doctor been giving me away?” he demanded. “Because if he has I’ll kill him!”
“He has not,” said Vivian. “Not by the faintest hint, ever. And is that all you think of? —
“Good-bye.”
She rose to leave him, sick at heart.
Then he seemed to realize that she was going; that she meant it.
“Surely, surely!” he cried, “you won’t throw me over now! Oh, Vivian! I told you I had been wild — that I wasn’t fit to touch your little slippers! And I wasn’t going to ask you to marry me till I felt sure this was all done with. All the rest of my life was yours, darling — is yours. You have made me over — surely you won’t leave me now!”
“I must,” she said.
He looked at her despairingly. If he lost her he lost not only a woman, but the hope of a life. Things he had never thought about before had now grown dear to him; a home, a family, an honorable place in the world, long years of quiet happiness.
“I can’t lose you!” he said. “I can’t!”
She did not answer, only sat there wit
h a white set face and her hands tight clenched in her lap.
“Where’d you get this idea anyhow?” he burst out again. “I believe it’s that woman doctor! What does she know!”
“Look here, Morton,” said Vivian firmly. “It is not a question of who told me. The important thing is that it’s — true! And I cannot marry you.”
“But Vivian—” he pleaded, trying to restrain the intensity of his feeling; “men get over these things. They do, really. It’s not so awful as you seem to think. It’s very common. And I’m nearly well. I was going to wait a year or two yet — to make sure — . Vivian! I’d cut my hand off before I’d hurt you!”
There was real agony in his voice, and her heart smote her; but there was something besides her heart ruling the girl now.
“I am sorry — I’m very sorry,” she said dully. “But I will not marry you.”
“You’ll throw me over — just for that! Oh, Vivian don’t — you can’t. I’m no worse than other men. It seems so terrible to you just because you’re so pure and white. It’s only what they call — wild oats, you know. Most men do it.”
She shook her head.
“And will you punish me — so cruelly — for that? I can’t live without you, Vivian — I won’t!”
“It is not a question of punishing you, Morton,” she said gently. “Nor myself. It is not the sin I am considering. It is the consequences!”
He felt a something high and implacable in the gentle girl; something he had never found in her before. He looked at her with despairing eyes. Her white grace, her stately little ways, her delicate beauty, had never seemed so desirable.
“Good God, Vivian. You can’t mean it. Give me time. Wait for me. I’ll be straight all the rest of my life — I mean it. I’ll be true to you, absolutely. I’ll do anything you say — only don’t give me up!”
She felt old, hundreds of years old, and as remote as far mountains.
“It isn’t anything you can do — in the rest of your life, my poor boy! It is what you have done — in the first of it!... Oh, Morton! It isn’t right to let us grow up without knowing! You never would have done it if you’d known — would you? Can’t you — can’t we — do something to — stop this awfulness?”
Her tender heart suffered in the pain she was inflicting, suffered too in her own loss; for as she faced the thought of final separation she found that her grief ran back into the far-off years of childhood. But she had made up her mind with a finality only the more absolute because it hurt her. Even what he said of possible recovery did not move her — the very thought of marriage had become impossible.
“I shall never marry,” she added, with a shiver; thinking that he might derive some comfort from the thought; but he replied with a bitter derisive little laugh. He did not rise to her appeal to “help the others.” So far in life the happiness of Morton Elder had been his one engrossing care; and now the unhappiness of Morton Elder assumed even larger proportions.
That bright and hallowed future to which he had been looking forward so earnestly had been suddenly withdrawn from him; his good resolutions, his “living straight” for the present, were wasted.
“You women that are so superior,” he said, “that’ll turn a man down for things that are over and done with — that he’s sorry for and ashamed of — do you know what you drive a man to! What do you think’s going to become of me if you throw me over!”
He reached out his hands to her in real agony. “Vivian! I love you! I can’t live without you! I can’t be good without you! And you love me a little — don’t you?”
She did. She could not deny it. She loved to shut her eyes to the future, to forgive the past, to come to those outstretched arms and bury everything beneath that one overwhelming phrase— “I love you!”
But she heard again Dr. Bellair’s clear low accusing voice— “Will you tell that to your crippled children?”
She rose to her feet. “I cannot help it, Morton. I am sorry — you will not believe how sorry I am! But I will never marry you.”
A look of swift despair swept over his face. It seemed to darken visibly as she watched. An expression of bitter hatred came upon him; of utter recklessness.
All that the last few months had seemed to bring of higher better feeling fell from him; and even as she pitied him she thought with a flicker of fear of how this might have happened — after marriage.
“Oh, well!” he said, rising to his feet. “I wish you could have made up your mind sooner, that’s all. I’ll take myself off now.”
She reached out her hands to him.
“Morton! Please! — don’t go away feeling so hardly! I am — fond of you — I always was. — Won’t you let me help you — to bear it — ! Can’t we be — friends?”
Again he laughed that bitter little laugh. “No, Miss Lane,” he said. “We distinctly cannot. This is good-bye — You won’t change your mind — again?”
She shook her head in silence, and he left her.
CHAPTER XI.
THEREAFTER.
If I do right, though heavens fall,
And end all light and laughter;
Though black the night and ages long,
Bitter the cold — the tempest strong —
If I do right, and brave it all —
The sun shall rise thereafter!
The inaccessibility of Dr. Hale gave him, in the eye of Mrs. St. Cloud, all the attractiveness of an unscaled peak to the true mountain climber. Here was a man, an unattached man, living next door to her, whom she had not even seen. Her pursuance of what Mr. Skee announced to his friends to be “one of these Platonic Friendships,” did not falter; neither did her interest in other relations less philosophic. Mr. Dykeman’s precipitate descent from the class of eligibles was more of a disappointment to her than she would admit even to herself; his firm, kind friendliness had given a sense of comfort, of achieved content that her restless spirit missed.
But Dr. Hale, if he had been before inaccessible, had now become so heavily fortified, so empanoplied in armor offensive and defensive, that even Mrs. Pettigrew found it difficult to obtain speech with him.
That his best friend, so long supporting him in cheerful bachelorhood, should have thus late laid down his arms, was bitterly resented. That Mr. Skee, free lance of years standing, and risen victor from several “stricken fields,” should show signs of capitulation, annoyed him further. Whether these feelings derived their intensity from another, which he entirely refused to acknowledge, is matter for the psychologist, and Dr. Hale avoided all psychologic self-examination.
With the boys he was always a hero. They admired his quiet strength and the unbroken good nature that was always presented to those about him, whatever his inner feelings.
Mr. Peters burst forth to the others one day, in tones of impassioned admiration.
“By George, fellows,” he said, “you know how nice Doc was last night?”
“Never saw him when he wasn’t,” said Archie.
“Don’t interrupt Mr. Peters,” drawled Percy. “He’s on the brink of a scientific discovery. Strange how these secrets of nature can lie unrevealed about us so long — and then suddenly burst upon our ken!”
Mr. Peters grinned affably. “That’s all right, but I maintain my assertion; whatever the general attraction of our noble host, you’ll admit that on the special occasion of yesterday evening, which we celebrated to a late hour by innocent games of cards — he was — as usual — the soul of — of — —”
“Affability?” suggested Percy.
“Precisely!” Peters admitted. “If there is a well-chosen word which perfectly describes the manner of Dr. Richard Hale — it is affable! Thank you, sir, thank you. Well, what I wish to announce, so that you can all of you get down on your knees at once and worship, is that all last evening he — had a toothache — a bad toothache!”
“My word!” said Archie, and remained silent.
“Oh, come now,” Percy protested, “that’s against natu
re. Have a toothache and not mention it? Not even mention it — without exaggeration! Why Archimedes couldn’t do that! Or — Sandalphon — or any of them!”
“How’d you learn the facts, my son? Tell us that.”
“Heard him on the ‘phone making an appointment. ‘Yes;’ ‘since noon yesterday,’ ‘yes, pretty severe.’ ‘11:30? You can’t make it earlier? All right.’ I’m just mentioning it to convince you fellows that you don’t appreciate your opportunities. There was some exceptional Female once — they said ‘to know her was a liberal education.’ What would you call it to live with Dr. Hale?”
And they called it every fine thing they could think of; for these boys knew better than anyone else, the effect of that association.
His patients knew him as wise, gentle, efficient, bringing a sense of hope and assurance by the mere touch of that strong hand; his professional associates in the town knew him as a good practitioner and friend, and wider medical circles, readers of his articles in the professional press had an even higher opinion of his powers.
Yet none of these knew Richard Hale. None saw him sitting late in his office, the pages of his book unturned, his eyes on the red spaces of the fire. No one was with him on those night tramps that left but an hour or two of sleep to the long night, and made that sleep irresistible from self-enforced fatigue. He had left the associations of his youth and deliberately selected this far-off mountain town to build the life he chose; and if he found it unsatisfying no one was the wiser.
His successive relays of boys, young fellows fresh from the East, coming from year to year and going from year to year as business called them, could and did give good testimony as to the home side of his character, however. It was not in nature that they should speculate about him. As they fell in love and out again with the facility of so many Romeos, they discoursed among themselves as to his misogyny.
“He certainly has a grouch on women,” they would admit. “That’s the one thing you can’t talk to him about — shuts up like a clam. Of course, he’ll let you talk about your own feelings and experiences, but you might as well talk to the side of a hill. I wonder what did happen to him?”
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 32
