BAINVILLE EFFECTS.
Lockstep, handcuffs, ankle-ball-and-chain,
Dulltoil and dreary food and drink;
Small cell, cold cell, narrow bed and hard;
High wall, thick wall, window iron-barred;
Stone-paved, stone-pent little prison yard--
Young hearts weary of monotony and pain,
Young hearts weary of reiterant refrain:
"They say--they do--what will people think?"
At the two front windows of their rather crowded little parlor sat
Miss Rebecca and Miss Josie Foote, Miss Sallie being out on a foraging
expedition--marketing, as it were, among their neighbors to collect
fresh food for thought.
A tall, slender girl in brown passed on the opposite walk.
"I should think Vivian Lane would get tired of wearing brown," said
Miss Rebecca.
"I don't know why she should," her sister promptly protested, "it's a
good enough wearing color, and becoming to her."
"She could afford to have more variety," said Miss Rebecca. "The Lanes
are mean enough about some things, but I know they'd like to have her
dress better. She'll never get married in the world."
"I don't know why not. She's only twenty-five--and good-looking."
"Good-looking! That's not everything. Plenty of girls marry that are
not good-looking--and plenty of good-looking girls stay single."
"Plenty of homely ones, too. Rebecca," said Miss Josie, with meaning.
Miss Rebecca certainly was not handsome. "Going to the library, of
course!" she pursued presently. "That girl reads all the time."
"So does her grandmother. I see her going and coming from that library
every day almost."
"Oh, well--she reads stories and things like that. Sallie goes pretty
often and she notices. We use that library enough, goodness knows, but
they are there every day. Vivian Lane reads the queerest
things--doctor's books and works on pedagoggy."
"Godgy," said Miss Rebecca, "not goggy." And as her sister ignored
this correction, she continued: "They might as well have let her go to
college when she was so set on it."
"College! I don't believe she'd have learned as much in any college,
from what I hear of 'em, as she has in all this time at home." The
Foote girls had never entertained a high opinion of extensive culture.
"I don't see any use in a girl's studying so much," said Miss Rebecca
with decision.
"Nor I," agreed Miss Josie. "Men don't like learned women."
"They don't seem to always like those that aren't learned, either,"
remarked Miss Rebecca with a pleasant sense of retribution for that
remark about "homely ones."
The tall girl in brown had seen the two faces at the windows opposite,
and had held her shoulders a little straighter as she turned the corner.
"Nine years this Summer since Morton Elder went West," murmured Miss
Josie, reminiscently. "I shouldn't wonder if Vivian had stayed single
on his account."
"Nonsense!" her sister answered sharply. "She's not that kind. She's
not popular with men, that's all. She's too intellectual."
"She ought to be in the library instead of Sue Elder," Miss Rebecca
suggested. "She's far more competent. Sue's a feather-headed little
thing."
"She seems to give satisfaction so far. If the trustees are pleased
with her, there's no reason for you to complain that I see," said Miss
Rebecca with decision.
* * * * *
Vivian Lane waited at the library desk with an armful of books to take
home. She had her card, her mother's and her father's--all utilized.
Her grandmother kept her own card--and her own counsel.
The pretty assistant librarian, withdrawing herself with some emphasis
from the unnecessary questions of a too gallant old gentleman, came to
attend her.
"You _have_ got a load," she said, scribbling complex figures with one
end of her hammer-headed pencil, and stamping violet dates with the
other. She whisked out the pale blue slips from the lid pockets,
dropped them into their proper openings in the desk and inserted the
cards in their stead with delicate precision.
"Can't you wait a bit and go home with me?" she asked. "I'll help you
carry them."
"No, thanks. I'm not going right home."
"You're going to see your Saint--I know!" said Miss Susie, tossing her
bright head. "I'm jealous, and you know it."
"Don't be a goose, Susie! You know you're my very best friend,
but--she's different."
"I should think she was different!" Susie sharply agreed. "And you've
been 'different' ever since she came."
"I hope so," said Vivian gravely. "Mrs. St. Cloud brings out one's
very best and highest. I wish you liked her better, Susie."
"I like you," Susie answered. "You bring out my 'best and highest'--if
I've got any. She don't. She's like a lovely, faint, bright--bubble! I
want to prick it!"
Vivian smiled down upon her.
"You bad little mouse!" she said. "Come, give me the books."
"Leave them with me, and I'll bring them in the car." Susie looked
anxious to make amends for her bit of blasphemy.
"All right, dear. Thank you. I'll be home by that time, probably."
* * * * *
In the street she stopped before a little shop where papers and
magazines were sold.
"I believe Father'd like the new Centurion," she said to herself, and
got it for him, chatting a little with the one-armed man who kept the
place. She stopped again at a small florist's and bought a little bag
of bulbs.
"Your mother's forgotten about those, I guess," said Mrs. Crothers, the
florist's wife, "but they'll do just as well now. Lucky you thought of
them before it got too late in the season. Bennie was awfully pleased
with that red and blue pencil you gave him, Miss Lane."
Vivian walked on. A child ran out suddenly from a gate and seized upon
her.
"Aren't you coming in to see me--ever?" she demanded.
Vivian stooped and kissed her.
"Yes, dear, but not to-night. How's that dear baby getting on?"
"She's better," said the little girl. "Mother said thank you--lots of
times. Wait a minute--"
The child fumbled in Vivian's coat pocket with a mischievous upward
glance, fished out a handful of peanuts, and ran up the path laughing
while the tall girl smiled down upon her lovingly.
A long-legged boy was lounging along the wet sidewalk. Vivian caught
up with him and he joined her with eagerness.
"Good evening, Miss Lane. Say--are you coming to the club to-morrow
night?"
She smiled cordially.
"Of course I am, Johnny. I wouldn't disappoint my boys for
anything--nor myself, either."
They walked on together chatting until, at the minister's house, she
bade him a cheery "good-night."
Mrs. St. Cloud was at the window pensively watching the western sky.
She saw the girl coming and let her in with a tender, radiant
smile--a lovely being in a most unlovely room.
There was a chill refinement above subdued confusion in that
Cambridge-Bainville parlor, where the higher culture of the second
Mrs. Williams, superimposed upon the lower culture of the first, as
that upon the varying tastes of a combined ancestry, made the place
somehow suggestive of excavations at Abydos.
It was much the kind of parlor Vivian had been accustomed to from
childhood, but Mrs. St. Cloud was of a type quite new to her. Clothed
in soft, clinging fabrics, always with a misty, veiled effect to them,
wearing pale amber, large, dull stones of uncertain shapes, and
slender chains that glittered here and there among her scarfs and
laces, sinking gracefully among deep cushions, even able to sink
gracefully into a common Bainville chair--this beautiful woman had
captured the girl's imagination from the first.
Clearly known, she was a sister of Mrs. Williams, visiting
indefinitely. Vaguely--and very frequently--hinted, her husband had
"left her," and "she did not believe in divorce." Against her
background of dumb patience, he shone darkly forth as A Brute of
unknown cruelties. Nothing against him would she ever say, and every
young masculine heart yearned to make life brighter to the Ideal
Woman, so strangely neglected; also some older ones. Her Young Men's
Bible Class was the pride of Mr. Williams' heart and joy of such young
men as the town possessed; most of Bainville's boys had gone.
"A wonderful uplifting influence," Mr. Williams called her, and
refused to say anything, even when directly approached, as to "the
facts" of her trouble. "It is an old story," he would say. "She bears
up wonderfully. She sacrifices her life rather than her principles."
To Vivian, sitting now on a hassock at the lady's feet and looking up
at her with adoring eyes, she was indeed a star, a saint, a cloud of
mystery.
She reached out a soft hand, white, slender, delicately kept, wearing
one thin gold ring, and stroked the girl's smooth hair. Vivian seized
the hand and kissed it, blushing as she did so.
"You foolish child! Don't waste your young affection on an old lady
like me."
"Old! You! You don't look as old as I do this minute!" said the girl
with hushed intensity.
"Life wears on you, I'm afraid, my dear.... Do you ever hear from him?"
To no one else, not even to Susie, could Vivian speak of what now
seemed the tragedy of her lost youth.
"No," said she. "Never now. He did write once or twice--at first."
"He writes to his aunt, of course?"
"Yes," said Vivian. "But not often. And he never--says anything."
"I understand. Poor child! You must be true, and wait." And the lady
turned the thin ring on her finger. Vivian watched her in a passion of
admiring tenderness.
"Oh, you understand!" she exclaimed. "You understand!"
"I understand, my dear," said Mrs. St. Cloud.
When Vivian reached her own gate she leaned her arms upon it and
looked first one way and then the other, down the long, still street.
The country was in sight at both ends--the low, monotonous, wooded
hills that shut them in. It was all familiar, wearingly familiar. She
had known it continuously for such part of her lifetime as was
sensitive to landscape effects, and had at times a mad wish for an
earthquake to change the outlines a little.
The infrequent trolley car passed just then and Sue Elder joined her,
to take the short cut home through the Lane's yard.
"Here you are," she said cheerfully, "and here are the books."
Vivian thanked her.
"Oh, say--come in after supper, can't you? Aunt Rella's had another
letter from Mort."
Vivian's sombre eyes lit up a little.
"How's he getting on? In the same business he was last year?" she
asked with an elaborately cheerful air. Morton had seemed to change
occupations oftener than he wrote letters.
"Yes, I believe so. I guess he's well. He never says much, you know.
I don't think it's good for him out there--good for any boy." And
Susie looked quite the older sister.
"What are they to do? They can't stay here."
"No, I suppose not--but we have to."
"Dr. Bellair didn't," remarked Vivian. "I like her--tremendously,
don't you?" In truth, Dr. Bellair was already a close second to Mrs.
St. Cloud in the girl's hero-worshipping heart.
"Oh, yes; she's splendid! Aunt Rella is so glad to have her with us.
They have great times recalling their school days together. Aunty used
to like her then, though she is five years older--but you'd never
dream it. And I think she's real handsome."
"She's not beautiful," said Vivian, with decision, "but she's a lot
better. Sue Elder, I wish----"
"Wish what?" asked her friend.
Sue put the books on the gate-post, and the two girls, arm in arm,
walked slowly up and down.
Susie was a round, palely rosy little person, with a delicate face and
soft, light hair waving fluffily about her small head. Vivian's hair was
twice the length, but so straight and fine that its mass had no effect.
She wore it in smooth plaits wound like a wreath from brow to nape.
After an understanding silence and a walk past three gates and back
again, Vivian answered her.
"I wish I were in your shoes," she said.
"What do you mean--having the Doctor in the house?"
"No--I'd like that too; but I mean work to do--your position."
"Oh, the library! You needn't; it's horrid. I wish I were in your shoes,
and had a father and mother to take care of me. I can tell you, it's no
fun--having to be there just on time or get fined, and having to poke
away all day with those phooty old ladies and tiresome children."
"But you're independent."
"Oh, yes, I'm independent. I have to be. Aunt Rella _could_ take care
of me, I suppose, but of course I wouldn't let her. And I dare say
library work is better than school-teaching."
"What'll we be doing when we're forty, I wonder?" said Vivian, after
another turn.
"Forty! Why I expect to be a grandma by that time," said Sue. She was
but twenty-one, and forty looked a long way off to her.
"A grandma! And knit?" suggested Vivian.
"Oh, yes--baby jackets--and blankets--and socks--and little shawls. I
love to knit," said Sue, cheerfully.
"But suppose you don't marry?" pursued her friend.
"Oh, but I shall marry--you see if I don't. Marriage"--here she
carefully went inside the gate and latched it--"marriage is--a woman's
duty!" And she ran up the path laughing.
Vivian laughed too, rather grimly, and slowly walked towards her own
door.
The little sitting-room was hot, very hot; but Mr. Lane sat with his
carpet-slippered feet on its narrow hearth with a shawl around him.
"Shut the door, Vivian!" he exclaimed irritably. "I'll never get over
this cold if such draughts are let in on me."
"Why, it's not cold out, Father--and it's very close in here."
Mrs. Lane looked up from her darning. "You think it's close because
you've come in from outdoors. Sit down--and don't fret your father;
I'm real worried about him."
Mr. Lane coughed hollowly. He had become a little dry old man with
gray, glassy eyes, and had been having colds in this fashion ever
since Vivian could remember.
"Dr. Bellair says that the out-door air is the best medicine for a
cold," remarked Vivian, as she took off her things.
"Dr. Bellair has not been consulted in this case," her father returned
wheezingly. "I'm quite satisfied with my family physician. He's a man,
at any rate."
"Save me from these women doctors!" exclaimed his wife.
Vivian set her lips patiently. She had long since learned how widely she
differed from both father and mother, and preferred silence to dispute.
Mr. Lane was a plain, ordinary person, who spent most of a moderately
useful life in the shoe business, from which he had of late withdrawn.
Both he and his wife "had property" to a certain extent; and now lived
peacefully on their income with neither fear nor hope, ambition nor
responsibility to trouble them. The one thing they were yet anxious
about was to see Vivian married, but this wish seemed to be no nearer
to fulfillment for the passing years.
"I don't know what the women are thinking of, these days," went on the
old gentleman, putting another shovelful of coal on the fire with a
careful hand. "Doctors and lawyers and even ministers, some of 'em!
The Lord certainly set down a woman's duty pretty plain--she was to
cleave unto her husband!"
"Some women have no husbands to cleave to, Father."
"They'd have husbands fast enough if they'd behave themselves," he
answered. "No man's going to want to marry one of these
self-sufficient independent, professional women, of course."
"I do hope, Viva," said her mother, "that you're not letting that Dr.
Bellair put foolish ideas into your head."
"I want to do something to support myself--sometime, Mother. I can't
live on my parents forever."
"You be patient, child. There's money enough for you to live on. It's
a woman's place to wait," put in Mr. Lane.
"How long?" inquired Vivian. "I'm twenty-five. No man has asked me to
marry him yet. Some of the women in this town have waited
thirty--forty--fifty--sixty years. No one has asked them."
"I was married at sixteen," suddenly remarked Vivian's grandmother.
"And my mother wasn't but fifteen. Huh!" A sudden little derisive
noise she made; such as used to be written "humph!"
For the past five years, Mrs. Pettigrew had made her home with the
Lanes. Mrs. Lane herself was but a feeble replica of her energetic
parent. There was but seventeen years difference in their ages, and
comparative idleness with some ill-health on the part of the
daughter, had made the difference appear less.
Mrs. Pettigrew had but a poor opinion of the present generation. In her
active youth she had reared a large family on a small income; in her
active middle-age, she had trotted about from daughter's house to son's
house, helping with the grandchildren. And now she still trotted about
in all weathers, visiting among the neighbors and vibrating as regularly
as a pendulum between her daughter's house and the public library.
The books she brought home were mainly novels, and if she perused
anything else in the severe quiet of the reading-room, she did not talk
about it. Indeed, it was a striking characteristic of Mrs. Pettigrew
that she talked very little, though she listened to all that went on
with a bright and beady eye, as of a highly intelligent parrot. And now,
having dropped her single remark into the conversation, she shut her
lips tight as was her habit, and drew another ball of worsted from the
black bag that always hung at her elbow.
She was making one of those perennial knitted garments, which, in her
young days, were called "Cardigan jackets," later "Jerseys," and now by
the offensive name of "sweater." These she constructed in great numbers,
and their probable expense was a source of discussion in the town. "How
do you find friends enough to give them to?" they asked her, and she
would smile enigmatically and reply, "Good presents make good friends."
"If a woman minds her P's and Q's she can get a husband easy enough,"
insisted the invalid. "Just shove that lamp nearer, Vivian, will you."
Vivian moved the lamp. Her mother moved her chair to follow it and
dropped her darning egg, which the girl handed to her.
"Supper's ready," announced a hard-featured middle-aged woman, opening
the dining-room door.
At this moment the gate clicked, and a firm step was heard coming up
the path.
"Gracious, that's the minister!" cried Mrs. Lane. "He said he'd be in
this afternoon if he got time. I thought likely 'twould be to supper."
She received him cordially, and insisted on his staying, slipping out
presently to open a jar of quinces.
The Reverend Otis Williams was by no means loathe to take occasional
meals with his parishioners. It was noted that, in making pastoral
calls, he began with the poorer members of his flock, and frequently
arrived about meal-time at the houses of those whose cooking he
approved.
"It is always a treat to take supper here," he said. "Not feeling
well, Mr. Lane? I'm sorry to hear it. Ah! Mrs. Pettigrew! Is that
jacket for me, by any chance? A little sombre, isn't it? Good evening,
Vivian. You are looking well--as you always do."
Vivian did not like him. He had married her mother, he had christened
her, she had "sat under" him for long, dull, uninterrupted years; yet
still she didn't like him.
"A chilly evening, Mr. Lane," he pursued.
"That's what I say," his host agreed. "Vivian says it isn't; I say it
is."
"Disagreement in the family! This won't do, Vivian," said the minister
jocosely. "Duty to parents, you know! Duty to parents!"
"Does duty to parents alter the temperature?" the girl asked, in a voice
of quiet sweetness, yet with a rebellious spark in her soft eyes.
"Huh!" said her grandmother--and dropped her gray ball. Vivian picked
it up and the old lady surreptitiously patted her.
"Pardon me," said the reverend gentleman to Mrs. Pettigrew, "did you
speak?"
"No," said the old lady, "Seldom do."
"Silence is golden, Mrs. Pettigrew. Silence is golden. Speech is
silver, but silence is golden. It is a rare gift."
Mrs. Pettigrew set her lips so tightly that they quite disappeared,
leaving only a thin dented line in her smoothly pale face. She was
called by the neighbors "wonderfully well preserved," a phrase she
herself despised. Some visitor, new to the town, had the hardihood to
use it to her face once. "Huh!" was the response. "I'm just sixty. Henry
Haskins and George Baker and Stephen Doolittle are all older'n I
am--and still doing business, doing it better'n any of the young folks
as far as I can see. You don't compare them to canned pears, do you?"
Mr. Williams knew her value in church work, and took no umbrage at her
somewhat inimical expression; particularly as just then Mrs. Lane
appeared and asked them to walk out to supper.
Vivian sat among them, restrained and courteous, but inwardly at war
with her surroundings. Here was her mother, busy, responsible, serving
creamed codfish and hot biscuit; her father, eating wheezily, and
finding fault with the biscuit, also with the codfish; her
grandmother, bright-eyed, thin-lipped and silent. Vivian got on well
with her grandmother, though neither of them talked much.
"My mother used to say that the perfect supper was cake, preserves,
hot bread, and a 'relish,'" said Mr. Williams genially. "You have the
perfect supper, Mrs. Lane."
"I'm glad if you enjoy it, I'm sure," said that lady. "I'm fond of a
bit of salt myself."
"And what are you reading now, Vivian," he asked paternally.
"Ward," she answered, modestly and briefly.
"Ward? Dr. Ward of the _Centurion_?"
Vivian smiled her gentlest.
"Oh, no," she replied; "Lester F. Ward, the Sociologist."
"Poor stuff, I think!" said her father. "Girls have no business to
read such things."
"I wish you'd speak to Vivian about it, Mr. Williams. She's got beyond
me," protested her mother.
"Huh!" said Mrs. Pettigrew. "I'd like some more of that quince, Laura."
"My dear young lady, you are not reading books of which your parents
disapprove, I hope?" urged the minister.
"Shouldn't I--ever?" asked the girl, in her soft, disarming manner.
"I'm surely old enough!"
"The duty of a daughter is not measured by years," he replied
sonorously. "Does parental duty cease? Are you not yet a child in your
father's house?"
"Is a daughter always a child if she lives at home?" inquired the
girl, as one seeking instruction.
He set down his cup and wiped his lips, flushing somewhat.
"The duty of a daughter begins at the age when she can understand the
distinction between right and wrong," he said, "and continues as long
as she is blessed with parents."
"And what is it?" she asked, large-eyed, attentive.
"What is it?" he repeated, looking at her in some surprise. "It is
submission, obedience--obedience."
"I see. So Mother ought to obey Grandmother," she pursued
meditatively, and Mrs. Pettigrew nearly choked in her tea.
Vivian was boiling with rebellion. To sit there and be lectured at the
table, to have her father complain of her, her mother invite pastoral
interference, the minister preach like that. She slapped her
grandmother's shoulder, readjusted the little knit shawl on the
straight back--and refrained from further speech.
When Mrs. Pettigrew could talk, she demanded suddenly of the
minister, "Have you read Campbell's New Theology?" and from that on
they were all occupied in listening to Mr. Williams' strong, clear and
extensive views on the subject--which lasted into the parlor again.
Vivian sat for awhile in the chair nearest the window, where some thin
thread of air might possibly leak in, and watched the minister with a
curious expression. All her life he had been held up to her as a
person to honor, as a man of irreproachable character, great learning
and wisdom. Of late she found with a sense of surprise that she did
not honor him at all. He seemed to her suddenly like a relic of past
ages, a piece of an old parchment--or papyrus. In the light of the
studies she had been pursuing in the well-stored town library, the
teachings of this worthy old gentleman appeared a jumble of age-old
traditions, superimposed one upon another.
"He's a palimpsest," she said to herself, "and a poor palimpsest at
that."
She sat with her shapely hands quiet in her lap while her
grandmother's shining needles twinkled in the dark wool, and her
mother's slim crochet hook ran along the widening spaces of some thin,
white, fuzzy thing. The rich powers of her young womanhood longed for
occupation, but she could never hypnotize herself with "fancywork."
Her work must be worth while. She felt the crushing cramp and
loneliness of a young mind, really stronger than those about her, yet
held in dumb subjection. She could not solace herself by loving them;
her father would have none of it, and her mother had small use for
what she called "sentiment." All her life Vivian had longed for more
loving, both to give and take; but no one ever imagined it of her, she
was so quiet and repressed in manner. The local opinion was that if a
woman had a head, she could not have a heart; and as to having a
body--it was indelicate to consider such a thing.
"I mean to have six children," Vivian had planned when she was younger.
"And they shall never be hungry for more loving." She meant to make up
to her vaguely imagined future family for all that her own youth missed.
Even Grandma, though far more sympathetic in temperament, was not
given to demonstration, and Vivian solaced her big, tender heart by
cuddling all the babies she could reach, and petting cats and dogs
when no children were to be found.
Presently she arose and bade a courteous goodnight to the still prolix
parson.
"I'm going over to Sue's," she said, and went out.
* * * * *
There was a moon again--a low, large moon, hazily brilliant. The air
was sweet with the odors of scarce-gone Summer, of coming Autumn.
The girl stood still, half-way down the path, and looked steadily into
that silver radiance. Moonlight always filled her heart with a vague
excitement, a feeling that something ought to happen--soon.
This flat, narrow life, so long, so endlessly long--would nothing ever
end it? Nine years since Morton went away! Nine years since the
strange, invading thrill of her first kiss! Back of that was only
childhood; these years really constituted Life; and Life, in the
girl's eyes, was a dreary treadmill.
She was externally quiet, and by conscience dutiful; so dutiful, so
quiet, so without powers of expression, that the ache of an
unsatisfied heart, the stir of young ambitions, were wholly
unsuspected by those about her. A studious, earnest, thoughtful
girl--but study alone does not supply life's needs, nor does such
friendship as her life afforded.
Susie was "a dear"--Susie was Morton's sister, and she was very fond
of her. But that bright-haired child did not understand--could not
understand--all that she needed.
Then came Mrs. St. Cloud into her life, stirring the depths of romance,
of the buried past, and of the unborn future. From her she learned to
face a life of utter renunciation, to be true, true to her ideals, true
to her principles, true to the past, to be patient; and to wait.
So strengthened, she had turned a deaf ear to such possible voice of
admiration as might have come from the scant membership of the Young
Men's Bible Class, leaving them the more devoted to Scripture study.
There was no thin ring to turn upon her finger; but, for lack of
better token, she had saved the rose she wore upon her breast that
night, keeping it hidden among her precious things.
And then, into the gray, flat current of her daily life, sharply
across the trend of Mrs. St. Cloud's soft influence, had come a new
force--Dr. Bellair.
Vivian liked her, yet felt afraid, a slight, shivering hesitancy as
before a too cold bath, a subtle sense that this breezy woman, strong,
cheerful, full of new ideas, if not ideals, and radiating actual
power, power used and enjoyed, might in some way change the movement
of her life.
Change she desired, she longed for, but dreaded the unknown.
Slowly she followed the long garden path, paused lingeringly by that
rough garden seat, went through and closed the gate.