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 mountainclimber. Here was a man, an unattached man, living next door to her,whom she had not even seen. Her pursuance of what Mr. Skee announcedto his friends to be "one of these Platonic Friendships," did notfalter; neither did her interest in other relations less philosophic.Mr. Dykeman's precipitate descent from the class of eligibles was moreof a disappointment to her than she would admit even to herself; hisfirm, kind friendliness had given a sense of comfort, of achievedcontent that her restless spirit missed.
But Dr. Hale, if he had been before inaccessible, had now become soheavily 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. ThatMr. Skee, free lance of years standing, and risen victor from several"stricken fields," should show signs of capitulation, annoyed himfurther. Whether these feelings derived their intensity from another,which he entirely refused to acknowledge, is matter for thepsychologist, and Dr. Hale avoided all psychologic self-examination.
With the boys he was always a hero. They admired his quiet strengthand the unbroken good nature that was always presented to those abouthim, whatever his inner feelings.
Mr. Peters burst forth to the others one day, in tones of impassionedadmiration.
"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 ascientific discovery. Strange how these secrets of nature can lieunrevealed about us so long--and then suddenly burst upon our ken!"
Mr. Peters grinned affably. "That's all right, but I maintain myassertion; whatever the general attraction of our noble host, you'lladmit that on the special occasion of yesterday evening, which wecelebrated to a late hour by innocent games of cards--he was--asusual--the soul of--of----"
"Affability?" suggested Percy.
"Precisely!" Peters admitted. "If there is a well-chosen word whichperfectly describes the manner of Dr. Richard Hale--it is affable!Thank you, sir, thank you. Well, what I wish to announce, so that youcan all of you get down on your knees at once and worship, is that alllast evening he--had a toothache--a bad toothache!"
"My word!" said Archie, and remained silent.
"Oh, come now," Percy protested, "that's against nature. Have atoothache and not _mention_ it? Not even mention it--withoutexaggeration! Why Archimedes couldn't do that! Or--Sandalphon--or anyof them!"
"How'd you learn the facts, my son? Tell us that."
"Heard him on the 'phone making an appointment. 'Yes;' 'since noonyesterday,' 'yes, pretty severe.' '11:30? You can't make it earlier?All right.' I'm just mentioning it to convince you fellows that youdon't appreciate your opportunities. There was some exceptional Femaleonce--they said 'to know her was a liberal education.' What would youcall it to live with Dr. Hale?"
And they called it every fine thing they could think of; for theseboys knew better than anyone else, the effect of that association.
His patients knew him as wise, gentle, efficient, bringing a sense ofhope and assurance by the mere touch of that strong hand; hisprofessional associates in the town knew him as a good practitionerand friend, and wider medical circles, readers of his articles in theprofessional press had an even higher opinion of his powers.
Yet none of these knew Richard Hale. None saw him sitting late in hisoffice, the pages of his book unturned, his eyes on the red spaces ofthe fire. No one was with him on those night tramps that left but anhour or two of sleep to the long night, and made that sleep irresistiblefrom self-enforced fatigue. He had left the associations of his youthand deliberately selected this far-off mountain town to build the lifehe chose; and if he found it unsatisfying no one was the wiser.
His successive relays of boys, young fellows fresh from the East, comingfrom 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. Asthey 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 theone thing you can't talk to him about--shuts up like a clam. Ofcourse, 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 didhappen to him?"
They made no inquiry, however. It was reported that a minister's wife,a person of determined character, had had the courage of herinquisitiveness, and asked him once, "Why is it that you have nevermarried, Dr. Hale?" And that he had replied, "It is owing to mydislike of the meddlesomeness of women." He lived his own life,unquestioned, now more markedly withdrawn than ever, coming no more toThe Cottonwoods.
Even when Morton Elder left, suddenly and without warning, to thegreat grief of his aunt and astonishment of his sister, their medicalneighbor still "sulked in his tent"--or at least in his office.
Morton's departure had but one explanation; it must be that Vivian hadrefused him, and she did not deny it.
"But why, Vivian, why? He has improved so--it was just getting lovelyto see how nice he was getting. And we all thought you were so happy."Thus the perplexed Susie. And Vivian found herself utterly unable toexplain to that happy little heart, on the brink of marriage, why shehad refused her brother.
Miss Orella was even harder to satisfy. "It's not as if you were afoolish changeable young girl, my dear. And you've known Morton allyour life--he was no stranger to you. It breaks my heart, Vivian.Can't you reconsider?"
The girl shook her head.
"I'm awfully sorry, Miss Orella. Please believe that I did it for thebest--and that it was very hard for me, too."
"But, Vivian! What can be the reason? I don't think you understandwhat a beautiful influence you have on the boy. He has improved so,since he has been here. And he was going to get a position here intown--he told me so himself--and really settle down. And now he's_gone_. Just off and away, as he used to be--and I never shall feeleasy about him again."
Miss Orella was frankly crying; and it wrung the girl's heart to knowthe pain she was causing; not only to Morton, and to herself, but tothese others.
Susie criticised her with frankness.
"I know you think you are right, Vivian, you always do--you and thatconscience of yours. But I really think you had gone too far to drawback, Jimmie saw him that night he went away--and he said he lookedawfully. And he really was changed so--beginning to be so thoroughlynice. Whatever was the matter? I think you ought to tell me, Vivian,I'm his sister, and--being engaged and all--perhaps I could straightenit out."
And she was as nearly angry as her sunny nature allowed, when herfriend refused to give any reason, beyond that she thought it right.
Her aunt did not criticise, but pleaded. "It's not too late, I'm sure,Vivian. A word from you would bring him back in a moment. Do speak it,Vivian--do! Put your pride in your pocket, child, and don't lose alifetime's happiness for some foolish quarrel."
Miss Orella, like Susie, was at present sure that marriage must mean alifetime's happiness. And Vivian looked miserably from one to the otherof these loving women-folk, and could not defend herself with the truth.
Mrs. Pettigrew took up the cudgels for her. She was not going to haveher favorite grandchild thus condemned and keep silence. "Anybody'dthink Vivian had married the man and then run away with another one!"she said tartly. "Pity if a girl
can't change her mind beforemarrying--she's held down pretty close afterward. An engagement isn'ta wedding, Orella Elder."
"But you don't consider the poor boy's feelings in the least, Mrs.Pettigrew."
"No, I don't," snapped the old lady. "I consider the poor girl's. I'mwilling to bet as much as you will that his feelings aren't any worsethan hers. If _he'd_ changed his mind and run off and left _her_, Iwarrant you two wouldn't have been so hard on him."
Evading this issue, Miss Orella wiped her eyes, and said: "Heavenknows where he is now. And I'm afraid he won't write--he never didwrite much, and now he's just heartbroken. I don't know as I'd haveseen him at all if I hadn't been awake and heard him rushingdownstairs. You've no idea how he suffers."
"I don't see as the girl's to blame that he hadn't decency enough tosay good-bye to the aunt that's been a mother to him; or to write toher, as he ought to. A person don't need to forget _all_ their dutybecause they've got the mitten."
Vivian shrank away from them all. Her heart ached intolerably.She had not realized how large a part in her life this constantadmiration and attention had become. She missed the outwardagreeableness, and the soft tide of affection, which had risenmore and more warmly about her. From her earliest memories shehad wished for affection--affection deep and continuous, tenderand with full expression. She had been too reserved to show herfeeling, too proud by far to express it, but under that delicatereticence of hers lay always that deep longing to love and to beloved wholly.
Susie had been a comfort always, in her kittenish affection andcaressing ways, but Susie was doubly lost, both in her new absorptionand now in this estrangement.
Then, to bring pain to Miss Orella, who had been so kind and sweet toher from earliest childhood, to hurt her so deeply, now, to mingle inher cup of happiness this grief and anxiety, made the girl sufferkeenly. Jimmie, of course, was able to comfort Susie. He told her itwas no killing matter anyhow, and that Morton would inevitably consolehimself elsewhere. "He'll never wear the willow for any girl, my dear.Don't you worry about him."
Also, Mr. Dykeman comforted Miss Orella, not only with wise words, butwith his tender sympathy and hopefulness. But no one could comfortVivian.
Even Dr. Bellair seemed to her present sensitiveness an alien, cruelpower. She had come like the angel with the flaming sword to standbetween her and what, now that it was gone, began to look like Paradise.
She quite forgot that she had always shrunk from Morton when he madelove too warmly, that she had been far from wholly pleased with himwhen he made his appearance there, that their engagement, so far asthey had one, was tentative--"sometime, when I am good enough" nothaving arrived. The unreasoning voice of the woman's nature within herhad answered, though but partially, to the deep call of the man's; andnow she missed more than she would admit to herself the tendernessthat was gone.
She had her intervals of sharp withdrawal from the memory of thattenderness, of deep thanksgiving for her escape; but fear of a dangeronly prophesied, does not obliterate memory of joys experienced.
Her grandmother watched her carefully, saying little. She forced noconfidence, made no comment, was not obtrusively affectionate, butformed a definite decision and conveyed it clearly to Dr. Bellair.
"Look here, Jane Bellair, you've upset Vivian's dish, and quite right;it's a good thing you did, and I don't know as you could have done iteasier."
"I couldn't have done it harder--that I know of," the doctor answered."I'd sooner operate on a baby--without an anaesthetic--than tell athing like that--to a girl like that. But it had to be done; andnobody else would."
"You did perfectly right. I'm thankful enough, I promise you; if youhadn't I should have had to--and goodness knows what a mess I'd havemade. But look here, the girl's going all to pieces. Now we've got todo something for her, and do it quick."
"I know that well enough," answered her friend, "and I set about iteven before I made the incision. You've seen that little buildinggoing up on the corner of High and Stone Streets?"
"That pretty little thing with the grass and flowers round it?"
"Yes--they got the flowers growing while the decorators finishedinside. It's a first-rate little kindergarten. I've got a list ofscholars all arranged for, and am going to pop the girl into it sofast she can't refuse. Not that I think she will."
"Who did it?" demanded Mrs. Pettigrew. "That man Skee?"
"Mr. Skee has had something to do with it," replied the doctor,guardedly; "but he doesn't want his name mentioned."
"Huh!" said Mrs. Pettigrew.
Vivian made no objection, though she was too listless to take up workwith enthusiasm.
As a prescription nothing could have worked better. Enough smallpupils were collected to pay the rent of the pretty place, and leave amodest income for her.
Dr. Bellair gathered together the mothers and aunts for a series ofafternoon talks in the convenient building, Vivian assisting, androused much interest among them. The loving touch of little hands, thepleasure of seeing the gay contentment of her well-ordered charges,began to lighten the girl's heart at last. They grew so fond of herthat the mothers were jealous, but she played with and taught them sowisely, and the youngsters were so much improved by it, that no parentwithdrew her darling.
Further than that, the new interest, the necessary reading and study,above all the study hours of occupation acted most beneficently,slowly, but surely steadying the nerves and comforting the heart.
There is a telling Oriental phrase describing sorrow: "And the wholeworld became strait unto him." The sense of final closing down oflife, of a dull, long, narrow path between her and the grave, whichhad so oppressed the girl's spirit, now changed rapidly. Here was roomto love at least, and she radiated a happy and unselfish affectionamong the little ones. Here was love in return, very sweet and honest,if shallow. Here was work; something to do, something to think about;both in her hours with the children and those spent in study. Her worktook her out of the house, too; away from Susie and her aunt, withtheir happy chatter and endless white needlework, and the gleefulexamination of presents.
Never before had she known the blessed relief of another place to go to.
When she left The Cottonwoods, as early as possible, and placed herkey in the door of the little gray house sitting among the roses, shefelt a distinct lightening of the heart. This was hers. Not herfather's, not Miss Elder's; not anybody's but hers--as long as shecould earn the rent.
She paid her board, too, in spite of deep and pained remonstrance,forcing Miss Elder to accept it by the ultimatum "would you rathermake me go away and board somewhere else?" She could not accept favorswhere she was condemned.
This, too, gave her a feeling hitherto inexperienced, deep andinspiring. She began to hold her graceful head insensibly higher, towalk with a freer step. Life was not ended after all, though Love hadgone. She might not be happy, but she might be useful and independent.
Then Dr. Bellair, who had by quiet friendliness and wise waiting,regained much of her former place with the girl, asked her toundertake, as a special favor to her, the care of a class of ratherdelicate children and young girls, in physical culture.
"Of course, Johanna Johnson is perfectly reliable and an excellentteacher. I don't know a better; but their mothers will feel easier ifthere's someone they know on the spot. You keep order and see that theydon't overdo. You'll have to go through their little exercises withthem, you see. I can't pay you anything for it; but it's only part oftwo afternoons in the week--and it won't hurt you at any rate."
Vivian was more than glad to do something for the doctor, as well as toextend her friendship among older children; also glad of anything tofurther fill her time. To be alone and idle was to think and suffer.
Mrs. Pettigrew came in with Dr. Bellair one afternoon to watch theexercises.
"I don't see but what Vivian does the tricks as well as any of them,"said her grandmother.
"She does beautifully," the doctor answered. "And her influence withth
e children is just what they needed. You see there's no romping andfoolishness, and she sets the pace--starts them off when they're shy.I'm extremely obliged to her."
Mrs. Pettigrew watched Vivian's rhythmic movements, her erect carriageand swinging step, her warm color and sparkling eyes, as she led theline of happy youngsters and then turned upon the doctor.
"Huh!" she said.
At Susie's wedding, her childhood's friend was so far forgiven as tobe chief bridesmaid, but seeing the happiness before her opened againthe gates of her own pain.
When it was all over, and the glad young things were safely despatchedupon their ribboned way, when all the guests had gone, when Mrs. St.Cloud felt the need of air and with the ever-gallant Mr. Skee setforth in search of it, when Dr. Bellair had returned to her patients,and Miss Orella to her own parlor, and was there consoled by Mr.Dykeman for the loss of her niece, then Vivian went to her room--allhers now, looking strangely large and empty--and set down among thedrifts of white tissue paper and scattered pins--alone.
She sank down on the bed, weary and sad at heart, for an hour of fullsurrender long refused; meaning for once to let her grief have itsfull way with her. But, just as on the night of her hurried engagementshe had been unable to taste to the full the happiness expected, sonow, surrender as she might, she could not feel the intensity ofexpected pain.
She was lonely, unquestionably. She faced a lonely life. Six long,heavy months had passed since she had made her decision.
"I am nearly twenty-seven now," she thought, resignedly. "I shallnever marry," and she felt a little shiver of the horror of last year.
But, having got this far in melancholy contemplation, her mind refusedto dwell upon it, but filled in spite of her with visions of merrylittle ones, prancing in wavering circles, and singing their morewavering songs. She was lonely and a single woman--but she hadsomething to do; and far more power to do it, more interest,enthusiasm, and skill, than at the season's beginning.
She thought of Morton--of what little they had heard since his hurrieddeparture. He had gone farther West; they had heard of him in SanFrancisco, they had heard of him, after some months, in the Klondikeregion, then they had heard no more. He did not write. It seemed hard toso deeply hurt his aunt for what was no fault of hers; but Morton hadnever considered her feelings very deeply, his bitter anger, hishopelessness, his desperate disappointment, blinding him to any painbut his own.
But her thoughts of him failed to rouse any keen distinctive sorrow.They rambled backward and forward, from the boy who had been such atrouble to his aunt, such a continuous disappointment and mortification;to the man whose wooing, looked back upon at this distance, seemed farless attractive to the memory than it had been at the time. Even hishonest attempt at improvement gave her but a feeling of pity, and thoughpity is akin to love it is not always a near relation.
From her unresisting descent into wells of pain, which provedunexpectedly shallow, the girl arose presently and quietly set to workarranging the room in its new capacity as hers only.
From black and bitter agony to the gray tastelessness of her presentlife was not an exciting change, but Vivian had more power in quietendurance than in immediate resistance, and set herself now in earnestto fulfill the tasks before her.
This was March. She was planning an extension of her classes, theemployment of an assistant. Her work was appreciated, her schoolincreased. Patiently and steadily she faced her task, and found agrowing comfort in it. When summer came, Dr. Bellair again begged herto help out in the plan of a girls' camp she was developing.
This was new work for Vivian, but her season in Mrs. Johnson'sgymnastic class had given her a fresh interest in her own body and theuse of it. That stalwart instructress, a large-boned, calm-eyedSwedish woman, was to be the manager of the camp, and Vivian thistime, with a small salary attached, was to act as assistant.
"It's a wonderful thing the way people take to these camps," said Dr.Bellair. "They are springing up everywhere. Magnificent for childrenand young people."
"It is a wonderful thing to me," observed Mrs. Pettigrew. "You go to awild place that costs no rent; you run a summer hotel without anyaccommodations; you get a lot of parents to pay handsomely for lettingtheir children be uncomfortable--and there you are."
"They are not uncomfortable!" protested her friend, a little ruffled."They like it. And besides liking it, it's good for them. It'sprecisely the roughing it that does them good."
It did do them good; the group of young women and girls who went tothe high-lying mountain lake where Dr. Bellair had bought a piece ofwild, rough country for her own future use, and none of them profitedby it more than Vivian.
She had been, from time to time, to decorous "shore places," where onecould do nothing but swim and lie on the sand; or to the "mountains,"those trim, green, modest, pretty-picture mountains, of which NewEngland is so proud; but she had never before been in an untouchedwilderness.
Often in the earliest dawn she would rise from the springy, odorousbed of balsam boughs and slip out alone for her morning swim. A runthrough the pines to a little rocky cape, with a small cave she knew,and to glide, naked, into that glass-smooth water, warmer than thesunless air, and swim out softly, silently, making hardly a ripple,turn on her back and lie there--alone with the sky--this broughtpeace to her heart. She felt so free from every tie to earth, so likea soul in space, floating there with the clean, dark water beneathher, and the clear, bright heaven above her; and when the pale glow inthe east brightened to saffron, warmed to rose, burst into a levelblaze of gold, the lake laughed in the light, and Vivian laughed, too,in pure joy of being alive and out in all that glittering beauty.
She tramped the hills with the girls; picked heaping pails of wildberries, learned to cook in primitive fashion, slept as she had neverslept in her life, from dark to dawn, grew brown and hungry andcheerful.
After all, twenty-seven was not an old age.
She came back at the summer-end, and Dr. Bellair clapped her warmly onthe shoulder, declaring, "I'm proud of you, Vivian! Simply proud ofyou!"
Her grandmother, after a judicious embrace, held her at arm's lengthand examined her critically.
"I don't see but what you've stood it first rate," she admitted. "Andif you _like_ that color--why, you certainly are looking well."
She was well, and began her second year of teaching with a serenespirit.
In all this time of slow rebuilding Vivian would not have been leftcomfortless if masculine admiration could have pleased her. The youngmen at The Cottonwoods, now undistracted by Susie's gay presence,concentrated much devotion upon Vivian, as did also the youths acrossthe way. She turned from them all, gently, but with absolute decision.
Among her most faithful devotees was young Percy Watson, who loved heralmost as much as he loved Dr. Hale, and could never understand, in hisguileless, boyish heart, why neither of them would talk about the other.
They did not forbid his talking, however, and the earnest youth,sitting in the quiet parlor at The Cottonwoods, would free his heartto Vivian about how the doctor worked too hard--sat up all hours tostudy--didn't give himself any rest--nor any fun.
"He'll break down some time--I tell him so. It's not natural for anyman to work that way, and I don't see any real need of it. He sayshe's working on a book--some big medical book, I suppose; but what'sthe hurry? I wish you'd have him over here oftener, and make him amusehimself a little, Miss Vivian."
"Dr. Hale is quite welcome to come at any time--he knows that," saidshe.
Again the candid Percy, sitting on the doctor's shadowy piazza, pouredout his devoted admiration for her to his silent host.
"She's the finest woman I ever knew!" the boy would say. "She's sobeautiful and so clever, and so pleasant to everybody. She's_square_--like a man. And she's kind--like a woman, only kinder; asort of motherliness about her. I don't see how she ever lived so longwithout being married. I'd marry her in a minute if I was goodenough--and if she'd have me."
 
; Dr. Hale tousled the ears of Balzac, the big, brown dog whose head wasso often on his knee, and said nothing. He had not seen the girl sincethat night by the arbor.
Later in the season he learned, perforce, to know her better, and toadmire her more.
Susie's baby came with the new year, and brought danger and anxiety.They hardly hoped to save the life of the child. The little mother waslong unable to leave her bed. Since her aunt was not there, but gone,as Mrs. Dykeman, on an extended tour--"part business and parthoneymoon," her husband told her--and since Mrs. Pettigrew now ruledalone at The Cottonwoods, with every evidence of ability andenjoyment, Vivian promptly installed herself in the Saunders home, asgeneral housekeeper and nurse.
She was glad then of her strength, and used it royally, comforting thewretched Jim, keeping up Susie's spirits, and mothering the frail tinybaby with exquisite devotion.
Day after day the doctor saw her, sweet and strong and patient,leaving her school to the assistant, regardless of losses, showing thevirtues he admired most in women.
He made his calls as short as possible; but even so, Vivian could notbut note how his sternness gave way to brusque good cheer for the sickmother, and to a lovely gentleness with the child.
When that siege was over and the girl returned to her own work, shecarried pleasant pictures in her mind, and began to wonder, as had somany others, why this man, who seemed so fitted to enjoy a family, hadnone.
She missed his daily call, and wondered further why he avoided themmore assiduously than at first.