Bacillus of Beauty: A Romance of To-day

by Harriet Stark

  CHAPTER IV

  GIRL BACHELOR AND BIOLOGIST

  Merrily flew the years and almost before I realised it came graduation.In the leafy dark of the village street, in the calm of a perfect Junenight, John Burke told me that he loved me, and I plighted my troth tohim.

  We laid plans as we bade each other good-by, to meet again--perhaps--inNew York in the fall; and even that little separation seemed so long.We did not guess that the weeks would grow to months, and--oh, dear,what will he think of me when he gets here? And what--now--shall I sayto him?

  Father for the first time visited college to see me graduate. Betweenhis pride in my standing at the head of my class and his discomfort ina starched collar, he was a prey to conflicting emotions allCommencement week, and heaved a great sigh of relief when at last thetrain that bore us home pulled out of the station. But as we approachedour own he again grew uneasy, and kept peering out at the car window asif on the watch for something.

  At length we descended in front of the long yellow box we called the"deepo." And there was Joe Lavigne to meet us, not with the democratwagon, but with a very new and shiny top buggy.

  When we reached the farmhouse, I saw proofs of a loving conspiracy. Theaddition of a broad veranda and a big bay window, with the softeningeffect of the young trees that had grown up all around the place, madeit look much more homelike than the bare box that had sheltered mychildhood. A new hammock swung between two of the trees.

  Mother met me at the door with more emotion than I had ever beforedetected upon her thin face. Then I saw that the dear people had beenat work within the house as well. Cosey corners and modern wall paperand fittings such as I had seen at the professors' houses and haddescribed at home to auditors apparently slightly interested, had beenremembered and treasured up and here attempted, to make my homecoming afestivity. The house had been transformed, and if not always in thebest of taste, love shone through the blunders.

  "Oh, Father," I cried, "now I am surprised! How much wheat it must havecost!"

  "Well, I guess we can stand it," he said, grimly pleased and proud andanxious all at once. "We wanted to make it kind o' pleasant for ye,Sis; an'--an' homelike."

  There was something so soft and tremulous in his voice that it struckme with a great pang of contrition that I had left him for so manyyears, that already I was eager to go away again--to the great citywhere John was soon to be.

  I turned quickly away and went from room to room admiring the changes,but after supper, when we were all gathered about the sitting roomtable, Father returned to the subject most upon his mind. He had seenme with John during Commencement week, and must have understood matters.

  "Ready t' stay hum now, I s'pose, ain't ye?" he asked with a note inhis voice of cheery assurance that perhaps he did not feel, tiltingback and forth in his old-fashioned rocking chair, as I had so oftenseen him do, with closed eyes and open mouth, his face steeled againstexpression. And the slow jog, jog, jog of the chair reminded me how hissilent evening vigils had worn away the rockers until they stood flatupon the floor, making every movement a clacking complaint.

  To-night--to-night, he is rocking just the same, in silence, inloneliness. Poor, dear Pa!

  "I'm glad to get home, of course," I said; "but--I wanted to speak withyou. But not to-night."

  "Why, ye're through school."

  "Yes, but I--I wish I could go on studying; if I may."

  The words tripped over each other in my embarrassment.

  The jog, jog of the chair paused suddenly, leaving for a moment onlythe ticking of the clock to break the silence.

  "Not goin' to put up 'ith us an' stay right alon', eh?" he asked; androcked twice, then stopped again, in suspense for the answer.

  "Why, Father," I stammered, "of course I don't want to do anythingunless you're willing, but I had thought I'd like--I did want to go andstudy in the city--I think--or somewhere."

  "Dear me! Dear me!" he mused, his voice very low and even; "an' youjust through the University; 'way up to the top, too. Can't ye--seemsas if ye better stop alon' of us an' study home, same's you used to?Mebbe--mebbe 'twon't be good for ye, studyin' so much."

  "Of course I can, you dear old Dad," I cried; and horribly guilty Ifelt as I looked at the kindly, weather-beaten face. "I shall do justwhatever you say. But oh, I wish I _could go to the city_! Don't yousuppose I could?"

  "Chicago, mebbe?"

  "I had thought of a post-graduate course in Barnard College--that's inNew York, you know."

  Father knew John's plans. I blushed hotly. In the pause that followed Iknew that he was thinking of a well-thumbed map in my old schoolgeography; of the long, long journey to Chicago, and the thousand wearymiles that stretched beyond. Hastily I went on:--

  "But I know how you have saved for me and worked for me and pinched;and I'd be ashamed to be a burden upon you any longer; I can teach toget money to go on with."

  "No;" said Pa, sitting up straight and striking the arm of the chairwith his clenched fist a blow that gave some hint of the excitementthat moved him. "Guess a child o' mine don't need to teach an' get alldragged out, alon' of a passel o' wild children! No, no, Helen 'Lizy;"he added more softly, sinking back into the old attitude and once moreclosing his eyes; "if the's so much more to learn, an' you want to goahead an' learn it, just you go an' get it done with. I'm right sorryto have ye go so fur away; I did think--but it's nat'ral, child; it'snat'ral. I s'pose John Burke's goin' to the city, too, and youkinder--I s'pose young folks likes to be together."

  "I--I--we have talked of it."

  Talked about it! John and I had talked of nothing else for a week. Isat very still, my eyes on the carpet.

  "Guess John Burke'll have all he cares to do for one while, gittin'started in the law office, 'thout runnin' round with Nelly," said Ma."Ye seem bent on spoilin' the child, Ezry. Al'ays the same way, eversin' she's a little girl."

  Her lips were compressed, the outward symbol of a life of silent hoursand self restraint.

  "There, there, Ma," said Father, jogging his chair again. "Don't yeworry no more 'bout that. What's ourn is hern in the long run, an' shemay as well have some of it now when she wants it, an' it'll do hersome good. I s'pose Frank Baker--she that's your mother's cousin an'married Tim'thy Baker an's gone to New York to live--I s'pose she mightlook after you; but it's a long way off, New York--seems like a dretfullong way off. What ye goin' to learn, Sis, if ye should go t' the city?"

  "Well, I was good in chemistry; Prof. Meade advised me--I might studymedicine; I don't know. And I want to know more about books andpictures and the things that people talk about, out in the world,though I can hardly call that a study, I suppose."

  The words somehow disappointed me when uttered. They didn't soundconvincing. Such pursuits seemed less serious, there in the oldfarm-house that spoke of so much painful toil, than when John and I haddiscussed them on the sunny campus.

  "I--I don't know yet, just what to do; there's all summer to plan; butI want--somehow--to make the very most and the best of myself," I addedearnestly.

  It was true, and the nearest I could come to the exact truth; that loveurged me yet more eagerly upon the Quest, and that with all my heart Ilonged to become a wise and brilliant woman, for John's sake, and as astep towards beauty, according to Miss Coleman's words.

  "I don't hold with women bein' doctors," said Ma, as she energeticallyknitted into the middle of her needle before looking up. "I don't knowwhat we're comin' to, these days."

  "There, there, Ma, I don't know why women shouldn't be doctors, if theywant to. They make better nusses'n men. Mebbe--mebbe Sis'll be gettin'married some day, an' I tell ye a little doctorin' know-how is mightyhandy in a house. A doctor an' a lawyer, now, would be a gret team,right in the fambly, like. Well, Sis, we'll see; we'll see."

  I knew that the matter was practically settled; and there was littlesleep for me, or for any one, that night in the old farm-house.

  I stayed at home until September, and then one morning Fath
er drove meagain to the little yellow station whose door opens wide upon all theworld.

  "Well, good-by, Helen 'Lizy," he said.

  "Good-by, Father."

  For weeks I had been eager to be off, but as the train began to moveand I looked back at his patient figure--he made no more show of hisdeep emotion than if the parting were for a day--a big lump rose in mythroat at leaving him and Ma--old before their time with toil andprivation and planning and striving for me.

  I knew how lonely it would be in the sitting room that night withoutme. Father with closed eyes jogging away in his chair, Mother boltupright and thin and prim, forever at her knitting or sewing; no soundbut the chair and the ticking clock upon the shelf--that night andevery night. And the early bedtime and the early morning and the long,long day--what a contrast to this!

  I pressed my face against the window, but a rush of tears blurred allthe dear, familiar landmarks--Barzillai Foote's red barn, the grainelevator at the siding, the Hartsville road trailing off over theprairie; I would have given worlds to be in the top buggy again, movinghomeward, instead of going swiftly out, out, alone, into the world.Three months ago! I did not dream what miracles were in store!

  And so one day I reached the New York I had dreamed about. It wasn't asa shrine of learning that it appealed to me, altogether; but as awonderful place, beautiful, glittering, feverish with motion, aboundingwith gayety, thronged with people, bubbling with life.

  How it fascinated me!

  Just at first of course I was lonely because John had not yet come, andMrs. Baker, mother's cousin, was away from home. But I soon madefriends with my cousins, Ethel and Milly; shy, nice girls, twins andprecisely alike, except, that Ethel is slightly lame. And at myboarding place I made the acquaintance of an art student fromCincinnati three or four years older than I, who proposed that weshould become girl bachelors and live in a studio.

  "But I didn't know people ever lived in studios," I objected.

  "Oh, you dear goose!" said Kathryn Reid--it's really her name, thoughof course I call her Kitty--"Live in studios? Bless you, child,everybody does it. And I know a beyewtiful studio that we can havecheap, because we're such superior young persons; also because it'sever so many stories up and no elevator. Can you cook a little? Can youwash dishes, or not mind if they're not washed? You got the blessedbump of disorder? You good at don't care? Then live with me and be mylove. You've no idea the money you'll save."

  That's just the way Kitty talks. You can't induce her to be serious forthree minutes at a time--I suppose it's the artistic temperament. Butshe's shrewd; studio life _is_ better than the kind of boarding housewe escaped from. And so jolly! Kitty has more chums than I, of course.Her brother, Prosper K., and Caroline Bryant--"Cadge," for short--aqueer girl who does newspaper work and sings like an angel, are theones I see most. Though for that matter the city's full of girls fromthe country, earning or partly earning their living. One will bestudying music, another art; one "boning" at medicine, another sellingstories to the newspapers and living in hope of one day writing a greatAmerican play or novel. Such nice girls--so brave and jolly.

  My new home is in a building on Union Square. And I like it--the place,the people, the glimpse of the wintry Square, the roaring city lifeunder my window. I'm sure I don't want a quiet room. It's such fun,just like playing house, to be by ourselves and independent of all theworld. I think it's an intoxicating thing, just at first, for a girl tobe really independent. Boys think nothing of it; it's what they've beenbrought up to expect.

  Well, I tore myself away from the dear place to get at my work. Ireally mean to work hard and justify Father's sacrifices. I tried totake singing lessons, because John is so fond of music, but there Imade a dismal failure; I had, three months ago, neither ear nor voice.The day before the fall semester opened, I climbed the long hill toBarnard College, fell in love with its gleaming white and gold, sodifferent from the State University, and arranged for a course inbiology. Then I began physical culture in a gymnasium.

  I couldn't have made a queerer or a better combination. For it was inthe Barnard laboratory that I met Prof. Darmstetter; and it was mybearing, my unending practice of the West Point setting-up drill, myDelsarte, my "harmonic poise" and evident health that drew hisattention to me.

  How well I remember the day I made his acquaintance! I had entered thelaboratory without knowing what manner of man he was, for all myarrangements about my course had been made with clerks. So it was withgenuine surprise that I turned from an inspection of the apparatus toanswer when a squeaking voice at my elbow suddenly saluted me:--

  "Mees Veenship, not so?"

  The owner of the voice was a little old fellow, whose dry, weazenedface gave no hint of his years. I guessed that he was probably seventy,though he might as easily be much younger. His skin wasparchment-coloured and cross-hatched by a thousand wrinkles and thehair under his skull-cap was as white as snow, but he was as bright ofeye and brisk of manner as a youth of twenty.

  "Yes, sir," I replied rather awkwardly; "I am Miss Winship."

  "V'at for you study biology?" was his surprising query, uttered in atone between a squeak, a snarl, and a grunt.

  "Because I wish to learn," I replied, after a moment's hesitation.

  "No, mine vriendt," he snapped, "you do not vish to learn. You carenot'ing for science. You are romantic, you grope, you change, you areunformed. In a vord, you are a voman. You haf industry--mine Gott,yes!--and you vill learn of me because I am a man and because you hafnot'ing better to do. And by-and-by behold Prince Charming--and youvill meet and marry and forget science. V'at for I vaste my time vit'you? Eh? I do not know any voman who becomes a great scientist. Not so?T'ose young vomen, t'ey vaste t'eir time and t'ey vaste mine."

  I followed his gesture and saw two or three nice-looking girls in bigchecked aprons amiably grinning at me. One of them by a solemn winkconveyed the hint that such hazing of new arrivals was not unusual.

  "You're paid to waste your time on me," I answered hotly. "I'm here towork and to listen to you; my plans are my own affair, and if I neverbecome a great scientist, I don't see what difference that makes toyou."

  The meekest looking girl gasped, wide eyed at my temerity. But Prof.Darmstetter's shrewd little eyes twinkled with reassuring good-nature.

  "Vell, vell, ve shall see," said he, wagging his head; "maybe I findsome use for you. I vatch you. Maybe I find for you some use t'at youdon't expect, eh? Ve shall see."

  So he walked away, shrugging his shoulders and snapping his fingers andmuttering to himself: "Ve shall see; we shall see." And at timesthroughout the session he chuckled as if he had heard of an excellentjoke.

  "Good gracious!" I whispered to one of the aproned girls that hadwatched the encounter--students like myself--"that's an encouragingreception, isn't it?"

  "It is," she gravely replied. "We're all jealous of you. You areevidently destined to become Prof. Darmstetter's favourite pupil. Iknow I cried half the night at the way he greeted me. We were allwatching you and you got off easy. Brought an apron? I can lend youone, if you didn't. It's pretty mussy here."

  "Thank you," I said, "but really I can't get my mind off Prof.Darmstetter, all in a minute so. What sort of a man is he?"

  "Oh, irritating sometimes, but a genius; I suppose his treatment of thegirls is a sample of his Early Teutonic ideas of civility. He likesbetter to teach the Columbia boys--says their work in future years'lldo him more credit. But we get used to him and don't mind it, we whowere here last year. And he's a great scientist; has a world-widereputation. He almost lives in the laboratory, here and at Columbia;has no home life or friends or relatives. And oh, it's such aprivilege," she said with a sudden change of tone, a schoolmistresslymanner, looking upon me more austerely, "to study under such a man. Heis a Master."

  The Master! She little knew how true was the word! To-morrow, if hissecret and mine were known, the world would hail him as its lord. Hewould be a greater man than has yet lived on the earth. Armies wouldfight for
his favour at the bidding of queens--to get what I have! Andto think that chance led me from two thousand miles away, straight tohim.

  From the first he seemed to take an interest in my doings. He nevertroubled himself to be polite, but he watched me; always he watched me.I often saw him chuckling and rubbing his hands as if in approbation.But of what? Not of my work, for of that he never took the slightestnotice, except when I compelled him to do so by some question.

  Then, in quick-flung sentences, he would condense the results of alifetime of study into phrases filled with meaning, that seemed to castlight upon principles, not facts, and make wonderfully clear the verypurpose of Nature. Then indeed he almost forgot that we were women, andtalked with kindling enthusiasm of his pet subject. I ceased to wonderthat he held such high rank in college.

  Under such conditions I made rapid progress. I thoroughly enjoyed thework, though I was not absorbed in it, like most of my companions; butI was quick enough to keep pace with them and to make occasional shrewdsuggestions that pleased Prof. Darmstetter not half so much as somesudden display of spirit. He did not seem to care whether I became astudent. And always he watched me, for what purpose I could notdetermine.

  My home life--if existence in a studio can be so called--was merry. Iwas learning the ways of the world. I liked the life. I wrote to Johnalmost every day. The freedom of the den, the change from rote lessonsto post-graduate work was pleasant. I was happy.

  Happy? I must have dreamed it.

  What I thought happiness was nothing to what I now know happiness canbe.