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--shehad been so much with him, had been so kind to him; kinder than Carstoncomment "knew for a fact," but not kinder than it surmised.
Then, though his dress remained as quietly correct, his face assumed aworn and anxious look, and he no longer offered her long auto rides orother expensive entertainment. She saw men on the piazza stop talkingas he came by, and shake their heads as they looked after him; but noone would tell her anything definite till she questioned Mr. Skee.
"I am worried about Mr. Dykeman," she said to this ever-willingconfidant, 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 standbeside, 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 waspersuaded to sit in one, it was either facing the back, cross-saddleand bent forward, or--and this was the utmost decorum he was able toapproach--tipped backward against the wall.
"He does not look well," said the lady, "you are old friends--do tellme; 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 ina worse place than his heart. I wouldn't betray a friend's confidencefor any money, Ma'am; but this is all over town. It'll go hard withAndy, I'm afraid, at his age."
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she whispered. "So sorry! But surely with a man ofhis abilities it will be only a temporary reverse!--"
"Dunno 'bout the abilities--not in this case. Unless he has abilityenough 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. "Andyhad a bang-up mine, galena ore--not gold, you understand, but oftenpays better. And he kept on putting the money it made back into it tomake more. Then, all of a sudden, it petered out! No more eggs in thatbasket. 'Course he can't sell it--now. And last year he refused half amillion. Andy's sure down on his luck."
"But he will recover! You western men are so wonderful! He will findanother mine!"
"O yes, he _may_! Certainly he _may_, Ma'am. Not that he found thisone--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 wassalted--that's my motto! But Andy's got no more money to buy anymines. 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 intheir parlor, could not help hearing. Miss Elder gave a little gasp andclasped her hands tightly, but Miss Pettigrew arose, and came outside.
"What's this about Mr. Dykeman?" she questioned abruptly. "Has he hadlosses?"
"There now," said Mr. Skee, remorsefully, "I never meant to give himaway like that. Mrs. Pettigrew, Ma'am, I must beg you not to mention itfurther. I was only satisfyin' this lady here, in answer to sympatheticanxiety, 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', orsomething like that--though he's not a brilliant man, Andy isn't. Youneedn'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. Hereturned 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, outhere. 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 losthis 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! Tothink of his having to be provided for by his friends--and having totake 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 noprotest, gave no confidences; but it soon appeared that he was workingin an office; and furthermore that this position was given him by Mr.Skee.
That gentleman, though discreetly reticent as to his own affairs, nowappeared in far finer raiment than he had hitherto affected; developeda pronounced taste in fobs and sleeve buttons; and a striking harmonyin socks and scarfs.
Men talked openly of him; no one seemed to know anything definite, butall were certain that "Old Skee must have struck it rich."
Mr. Skee kept his own counsel; but became munificent in gifts andentertainments. 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; "butI understand it's the thing. In fact I'm sure of it--for I'veconsulted 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 thatI imagine Jim Saunders ever was much of a--Egyptian--but then----!"
He consulted her also about Vivian--did she not think the girl lookedworn and ill? Wouldn't it be a good thing to send her off for a tripsomewhere?
He consulted her about a library; said he had always wanted a libraryof his own, but the public ones were somewhat in his way. How manybooks did she think a man ought really to own--to spend his decliningyears among. Also, and at considerable length he consulted her aboutthe best possible place of residence.
"I'm getting to be an old man, Mrs. St. Cloud," he remarkedmeditatively; "and I'm thinking of buying and building somewhere. Butit's a ticklish job. Lo! these many years I've been perfectly contentedto live wherever I was at; and now that I'm considering a realHome--blamed if I know where to put it! I'm distracted between A ModelFarm, and A Metropolitan Residence. Which would you recommend, Ma'am?"
The lady's sympathy and interest warmed to Mr. Skee as they cooled toMr. Dykeman, not with any blameworthy or noticeable suddenness, but insoft graduations, steady and continuous. The one wore his new glorieswith an air of modest pride; making no boast of affluence; and theother 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 bravelyof the beauty of limited means; and when it was time to present herweekly 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 omissionrepeated on the following week, he stood by his window smilingthoughtfully for some time, and then went in search of Miss Orella.
She sat by her shaded lamp, alone, knitting a silk tie which waspromptly hidden as he entered. He stood by the door looking at her inspite of her urging him to be seated, observing the warm color in herface, the graceful lines of her figure, the gentle smile that was sounfailingly attractive. Then he came forward, calmly inquiring, "Whyhaven'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'tlike. But I did hear that you were--temporarily embarrassed. And Iwant you to feel sure, Mr. Dykeman, that to your real friends it makesno difference in the _least_. And if--for a while that is--it shouldbe a little more convenient to--to defer payment, please feelperfe
ctly at liberty to wait!"
She stood there blushing like a girl, her sweet eyes wet with shiningtears 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 aclerk's salary--as long as I live?"
Again she nodded.
He took a step or two back and forth in the quiet parlor, and returnedto her.
"Would you marry a poor man?" he asked in a low tender voice. "Would youmarry 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 uttersatisfaction. "Now I am rich indeed," he said softly.
She held him off a little. "Don't talk about being rich. It doesn'tmatter. If you like to live here--why this house will keep us both. Ifyou'd rather have a little one--I can live _so_ happily--on _so_little! And there is my own little home in Bainville--perhaps youcould find something to do there. I don't care the least in theworld--so long as you love me!"
"I've loved you since I first set eyes on you," he answered her. "Tosee the home you've made here for all of us was enough to make any manlove you. But I thought awhile back that I hadn't any chance--youweren't jealous of that Artificial Fairy, were you?"
And conscientiously Miss Orella lied.
Carston society was pleased, but not surprised at Susie's engagement; itwas both pleased and surprised when Miss Elder's was announced. Somethere were who protested that they had seen it from the beginning; butdisputatious friends taxed them with having prophesied quite otherwise.
Some thought Miss Elder foolish to take up with a man of full middleage, and with no prospects; and others attributed the foolishness toMr. Dykeman, in marrying an old maid. Others again darkly hinted thathe 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 hiswife keep boarders!"
In Bainville circles the event created high commotion. That one of theiraccumulated maidens, part of the Virgin Sacrifice of New England, whichfinds not even a Minotaur--had thus triumphantly escaped from theirranks and achieved a husband; this was flatly heretical. The fact thathe was a poor man was the only mitigating circumstance, leaving it opento the more captious to criticize the lady sharply.
But the calm contentment of Andrew Dykeman's face, and the decorousbliss of Miss Elder's were untroubled by what anyone thought or said.
Little Susie was delighted, and teased for a double wedding; withoutsuccess. "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. Bellairleft her on the hill, left her alone in a strange new horrible world,was still glaring across her consciousness, the end of one life, thebar to any other. Its small events were as clear to her as those whichstand out so painfully on a day of death; all that led up to thepleasant walk, when an eager girl mounted the breezy height, and asad-faced woman came down from it.
She had waited long and came home slowly, dreading to see a face sheknew, dreading worst of all to see Morton. The boy she had known solong, the man she was beginning to know, had changed to anunbelievable horror; and the love which had so lately seemed real toher recoiled upon her heart with a sense of hopeless shame.
She wished--eagerly, desperately, she wished--she need never see himagain. She thought of the man's resource of running away--if she couldjust _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 terrorswere not in Bainville, surely. Then the sickening thought crept in thatperhaps they were--only they did not know it. Besides, she had no moneyto go with. If only she had started that little school sooner! Write toher 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 horrorand marriage impossible. She pushed the idea from her, impotently, asone might push at a lava flow.
In her wide reading she had learned in a vague way of "evil"--adistant undescribed evil which was in the world, and which must beavoided. She had known that there was such a thing as "sin," andabhorred the very thought of it.
Morton's penitential confessions had given no details; she hadpictured 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 thefamily entirely that evening, avoided Susie, went to her grandmotherand asked if she might come and sleep on the lounge in her room.
"Surely, my child, glad to have you," said Mrs. Pettigrewaffectionately. "Better try my bed--there's room a-plenty."
The girl lay long with those old arms about her, crying quietly. Hergrandmother asked no questions, only patted her softly from time totime, 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 wiseold 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 forgetthat other folks can't stand 'em. She was too hard on you, dearie."
But Vivian defended the doctor. "Oh, no, Grandma. She didit beautifully. And it hurt her so. She told me about herown--disappointment."
"Yes, I remember her as a girl, you see. A fine sweet girl she wastoo. It was an awful blow--and she took it hard. It has made herbitter, I think, perhaps; that and the number of similar cases she hadto cope with."
"But, Grandma--is it--_can_ it be as bad as she said? Seventy-five percent! Three-quarters of--of everybody!"
"Not everybody dear, thank goodness. Our girls are mostly clean, andthey save the race, I guess."
"I don't even want to _see_ a man again!" said the girl with lowintensity.
"Shouldn't think you would, at first. But, dear child--just braceyourself and look it fair in the face! The world's no worse than itwas yesterday--just because you know more about it!"
"No," Vivian admitted, "But it's like uncovering a charnel house!" sheshuddered.
"Never saw a charnel house myself," said the old lady, "even with thelid on. But now see here child; you mustn't feel as if all men wereUnspeakable Villains. They are just ignorant boys--and nobody evertells 'em the truth. Nobody used to know it, for that matter. All thisabout gonorrhea is quite newly discovered--it has set the doctors allby the ears. Having women doctors has made a difference too--lots ofdifference."
"Besides," she went on after a pause, "things are changing very fastnow, since the general airing began. Dr. Prince Morrow in New York,with that society of his--(I can never remember the name--makes methink of tooth brushes) has done much; and the popular magazines havetaken 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 tothink it is not proper to know anything about the worst danger beforethem. 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 herchildren--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 anygood."
After awhile she continued: "Women are waking up to this all over thecountry, now. Nice women, old and young. The women's clubs andcongresses are taking it up, as they should. Some states have passedlaws requiring a medical certi
ficate--a clean bill of health--to gowith a license to marry. You can see that's reasonable! A man has tobe examined to enter the army or navy, even to get his life insured;Marriage and Parentage are more important than those things! And weare beginning to teach children and young people what they ought toknow. 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 onthe brink of perdition. Remember that we've got a whole quarter of themen to bank on. That's a good many, in this country. We're not so badas Europe--not yet--in this line. Then just think of this, child. Wehave lived, and done splendid things all these years, even with thisload of disease on us. Think what we can do when we're rid of it! Andthat'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 stopit! Think of that. We can religiously rid the world of allthese--'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 soundthrough 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, byany means; it was quite another to tell Morton.
He gave her no good opportunity. He did not say again, "Will you marryme?" So that she could say, "No," and be done with it. He did not evensay, "When will you marry me?" to which she could answer "Never!" Hemerely took it for granted that she was going to, and continued tomonopolize her as far as possible, with all pleasant and comfortableattentions.
She forced the situation even more sharply than she wished, by turningfrom him with a shiver when he met her on the stairs one night andleaned 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 severaldays. Have I done anything you don't like?"
"Oh, Morton!" His question was so exactly to the point; and soexquisitely inadequate! He had indeed.
"I care too much for you to let anything stand between us now," hewent on.
"Come, there's no one in the upper hall--come and 'tell me theworst.'"
"As well now as ever." thought the girl. Yet when they sat on the longwindow seat, and he turned his handsome face toward her, with thatnewer, better look on it, she could not believe that this awful thingwas true.
"Now then--What is wrong between us?" he said.
She answered only, "I will tell you the worst, Morton. I cannot marryyou--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 youwith my whole heart. What have I done--that I have not told you?"
Then she recalled his contrite confessions; and contrasted what he hadtold her with what he had not; with the unspeakable fate to which hewould have consigned her--and those to come; and a sort of holy ragerose 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 utterabashment, but he did nothing of the kind. What he did do astonishedher beyond measure. He rose to his feet, with clenched fists.
"Has that damned doctor been giving me away?" he demanded. "Because ifhe 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 littleslippers! And I wasn't going to ask you to marry me till I felt surethis was all done with. All the rest of my life was yours, darling--isyours. 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 awoman, but the hope of a life. Things he had never thought aboutbefore had now grown dear to him; a home, a family, an honorable placein the world, long years of quiet happiness.
"I can't lose you!" he said. "I _can't_!"
She did not answer, only sat there with a white set face and her handstight clenched in her lap.
"Where'd you get this idea anyhow?" he burst out again. "I believeit's that woman doctor! What does she know!"
"Look here, Morton," said Vivian firmly. "It is not a question of whotold me. The important thing is that it's--true! And I cannot marryyou."
"But Vivian--" he pleaded, trying to restrain the intensity of hisfeeling; "men get over these things. They do, really. It's not soawful as you seem to think. It's very common. And I'm nearly well. Iwas going to wait a year or two yet--to make sure--. Vivian! I'd cutmy hand off before I'd hurt you!"
There was real agony in his voice, and her heart smote her; but therewas something besides her heart ruling the girl now.
"I am sorry--I'm very sorry," she said dully. "But I will not marryyou."
"You'll throw me over--just for that! Oh, Vivian don't--you can't. I'mno worse than other men. It seems so terrible to you just becauseyou're so pure and white. It's only what they call--wild oats, youknow. Most men do it."
She shook her head.
"And will you punish me--so cruelly--for that? I can't live withoutyou, Vivian--I won't!"
"It is not a question of punishing you, Morton," she said gently. "Normyself. It is not the sin I am considering. It is the consequences!"
He felt a something high and implacable in the gentle girl; somethinghe had never found in her before. He looked at her with despairingeyes. 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'llbe 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'tright 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 somethingto--stop this awfulness?"
Her tender heart suffered in the pain she was inflicting, suffered tooin her own loss; for as she faced the thought of final separation shefound that her grief ran back into the far-off years of childhood. Butshe had made up her mind with a finality only the more absolutebecause it hurt her. Even what he said of possible recovery did notmove her--the very thought of marriage had become impossible.
"I shall never marry," she added, with a shiver; thinking that hemight derive some comfort from the thought; but he replied with abitter derisive little laugh. He did not rise to her appeal to "helpthe others." So far in life the happiness of Morton Elder had been hisone engrossing care; and now the unhappiness of Morton Elder assumedeven larger proportions.
That bright and hallowed future to which he had been looking forwardso earnestly had been suddenly withdrawn from him; his goodresolutions, his "living straight" for the present, were wasted.
"You women that are so superior," he said, "that'll turn a man downfor things that are over and done with--that he's sorry for andashamed of--do you know what you drive a man to! What do you think'sgoing to become of me if you throw me over!"
He reached out his hands to her in real agony. "Vivian! I love you! Ican't live without you! I can't be good without you! And you love me alittle--don't you?"
She did. She could not deny it. She loved to shut her eyes to thefuture, to forgive th
e past, to come to those outstretched arms andbury everything beneath that one overwhelming phrase--"I love you!"
But she heard again Dr. Bellair's clear low accusing voice--"Will youtell that to your crippled children?"
She rose to her feet. "I cannot help it, Morton. I am sorry--you willnot believe how sorry I am! But I will never marry you."
A look of swift despair swept over his face. It seemed to darkenvisibly 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 betterfeeling fell from him; and even as she pitied him she thought with aflicker of fear of how this might have happened--after marriage.
"Oh, well!" he said, rising to his feet. "I wish you could have madeup 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 ofyou--I always was.--Won't you let me help you--to bear it--! Can't webe--friends?"
Again he laughed that bitter little laugh. "No, Miss Lane," he said. "Wedistinctly cannot. This is good-bye--You won't change your mind--again?"
She shook her head in silence, and he left her.