CONSEQUENCES.
You may have a fondness for grapes that are green,
And the sourness that greenness beneath;
You may have a right
To a colic at night--
But consider your children's teeth!
Dr. Hale retired from his gaily illuminated grounds in too much
displeasure to consider the question of dignity. One suddenly acting
cause was the news given him by Vivian. The other was the sight of
Morton Elder's face as he struck a match to light his cigarette.
Thus moved, and having entered and left his own grounds like a thief
in the night, he proceeded to tramp in the high-lying outskirts of the
town until every light in his house had gone out. Then he returned,
let himself into his office, and lay there on a lounge until morning.
Vivian had come out so quickly to greet the doctor from obscure
motives. She felt a sudden deep objection to being found there with
Morton, a wish to appear as one walking about unconcernedly, and when
that match glow made Morton's face shine out prominently in the dark
shelter, she, too, felt a sudden displeasure.
Without a word she went swiftly to the house, excused herself to her
Grandmother, who nodded understandingly, and returned to The
Cottonwoods, to her room. She felt that she must be alone and think;
think of that irrevocable word she had uttered, and its consequences.
She sat at her window, rather breathless, watching the rows of pink
lanterns swaying softly on the other side of the street; hearing the
lively music, seeing young couples leave the gate and stroll off
homeward.
Susie's happiness came more vividly to mind than her own. It was so
freshly joyous, so pure, so perfectly at rest. She could not feel that
way, could not tell with decision exactly how she did feel. But if this
was happiness, it was not as she had imagined it. She thought of that
moonlit summer night so long ago, and the memory of its warm wonder
seemed sweeter than the hasty tumult and compulsion of to-night.
She was stirred through and through by Morton's intense emotion, but
with a sort of reaction, a wish to escape. He had been so madly
anxious, he had held her so close; there seemed no other way but to
yield to him--in order to get away.
And then Dr. Hale had jarred the whole situation. She had to be polite
to him, in his own grounds. If only Morton had kept still--that
grating match--his face, bent and puffing, Dr. Hale must have seen
him. And again she thought of little Susie with almost envy. Even
after that young lady had come in, bubbled over with confidences and
raptures, and finally dropped to sleep without Vivian's having been
able to bring herself to return the confidences, she stole back to her
window again to breathe.
Why had Dr. Hale started so at the name of Mrs. St. Cloud? That was
puzzling her more than she cared to admit. By and by she saw his
well-known figure, tall and erect, march by on the other side and go
into the office.
"O, well," she sighed at last, "I'm not young, like Susie. Perhaps it
_is_ like this--"
Now Morton had been in no special need of that cigarette at that
special moment, but he did not wish to seem to hide in the dusky
arbor, nor to emerge lamely as if he had hidden. So he lit the match,
more from habit than anything else. When it was out, and the cigarette
well lighted, he heard the doctor's sudden thump on the other side of
the fence and came out to rejoin Vivian. She was not there.
He did not see her again that night, and his meditations were such
that next day found him, as a lover, far more agreeable to Vivian than
the night before. He showed real understanding, no triumph, no airs of
possession; took no liberties, only said: "When I am good enough I
shall claim you--my darling!" and looked at her with such restrained
longing that she quite warmed to him again.
He held to this attitude, devoted, quietly affectionate; till her
sense of rebellion passed away and her real pleasure in his
improvement reasserted itself. As they read together, if now and then
his arm stole around her waist, he always withdrew it when so
commanded. Still, one cannot put the same severity into a prohibition
too often repeated. The constant, thoughtful attention of a man
experienced in the art of pleasing women, the new and frankly
inexperienced efforts he made to meet her highest thoughts, to learn
and share her preferences, both pleased her.
He was certainly good looking, certainly amusing, certainly had become
a better man from her companionship. She grew to feel a sort of
ownership in this newly arisen character; a sort of pride in it. Then,
she had always been fond of Morton, since the time when he was only
"Susie's big brother." That counted.
Another thing counted, too, counted heavily, though Vivian never
dreamed of it and would have hotly repudiated the charge. She was a
woman of full marriageable age, with all the unused powers of her
woman's nature calling for expression, quite unrecognized.
He was a man who loved her, loved her more deeply than he had ever
loved before, than he had even known he could love; who quite
recognized what called within him and meant to meet the call. And he
was near her every day.
After that one fierce outbreak he held himself well in check. He knew
he had startled her then, almost lost her. And with every hour of
their companionship he felt more and more how much she was to him.
Other women he had pursued, overtaken, left behind. He felt that there
was something in Vivian which was beyond him, giving a stir and lift
of aspiration which he genuinely enjoyed.
Day by day he strove to win her full approval, and day by day he did
not neglect the tiny, slow-lapping waves of little tendernesses, small
affectionate liberties at well-chosen moments, always promptly
withdrawing when forbidden, but always beginning again a little
further on.
Dr. Bellair went to Dr. Hale's office and sat herself down solidly in
the patient's chair.
"Dick," she said, "are you going to stand for this?"
"Stand for what, my esteemed but cryptic fellow-practitioner?"
She eyed his calm, reserved countenance with friendly admiration. "You
are an awfully good fellow, Dick, but dull. At the same time dull and
transparent. Are you going to sit still and let that dangerous patient
of yours marry the finest girl in town?"
"Your admiration for girls is always stronger than mine, Jane; and I
have, if you will pardon the boast, more than one patient."
"All right, Dick--if you want it made perfectly clear to your
understanding. Do you mean to let Morton Elder marry Vivian Lane?"
"What business is it of mine?" he demanded, more than
brusquely--savagely.
"You know what he's got."
"I am a physician, not a detective. And I am not Miss Lane's father,
brother, uncle or guardian."
"Or lover," added Dr. Bellair, eyeing him quietly. She thought she saw a
second's flicker of light in the deep gray eyes, a possible tightening
of set lips. "Suppose you are not," she said; "nor even a humanitarian.
You _are_ a member of society. Do you mean to let a man whom you know
has no right to marry, poison the life of that splendid girl?"
He was quite silent for a moment, but she could see the hand on the
farther arm of his chair grip it till the nails were white.
"How do you know he--wishes to marry her?"
"If you were about like other people, you old hermit, you'd know it as
well as anybody. I think they are on the verge of an engagement, if
they aren't over it already. Once more, Dick, shall you do anything?"
"No," said he. Then, as she did not add a word, he rose and walked up
and down the office in big strides, turning upon her at last.
"You know how I feel about this. It is a matter of honor--professional
honor. You women don't seem to know what the word means. I've told
that good-for-nothing young wreck that he has no right to marry for
years yet, if ever. That is all I can do. I will not betray the
confidence of a patient."
"Not if he had smallpox, or scarlet fever, or the bubonic plague?
Suppose a patient of yours had the leprosy, and wanted to marry your
sister, would you betray his confidence?"
"I might kill my sister," he said, glaring at her. "I refuse to argue
with you."
"Yes, I think you'd better refuse," she said, rising. "And you don't
have to kill Vivian Lane, either. A man's honor always seems to want
to kill a woman to satisfy it. I'm glad I haven't got the feeling.
Well, Dick, I thought I'd give you a chance to come to your senses, a
real good chance. But I won't leave you to the pangs of unavailing
remorse, you poor old goose. That young syphilitic is no patient of
mine." And she marched off to perform a difficult duty.
She was very fond of Vivian. The girl's unselfish sweetness of
character and the depth of courage and power she perceived behind the
sensitive, almost timid exterior, appealed to her. If she had had a
daughter, perhaps she would have been like that. If she had had a
daughter would she not have thanked anyone who would try to save her
from such a danger? From that worse than deadly peril, because of
which she had no daughter.
Dr. Bellair was not the only one who watched Morton's growing devotion
with keen interest. To his aunt it was a constant joy. From the time her
boisterous little nephew had come to rejoice her heart and upset her
immaculate household arrangements, and had played, pleasantly though
tyrannically, with the little girl next door, Miss Orella had dreamed
this romance for him. To have it fail was part of her grief when he left
her, to have it now so visibly coming to completion was a deep delight.
If she had been blind to his faults, she was at least vividly
conscious of the present sudden growth of virtues. She beamed at him
with affectionate pride, and her manner to Mrs. Pettigrew was one of
barely subdued "I told you so." Indeed, she could not restrain herself
altogether, but spoke to that lady with tender triumph of how lovely
it was to have Morton so gentle and nice.
"You never did like the boy, I know, but you must admit that he is
behaving beautifully now."
"I will," said the old lady; "I'll admit it without reservation. He's
behaving beautifully--now. But I'm not going to talk about him--to
you, Orella." So she rolled up her knitting work and marched off.
"Too bad she's so prejudiced and opinionated," said Miss Elder to
Susie, rather warmly. "I'm real fond of Mrs. Pettigrew, but when she
takes a dislike----"
Susie was so happy herself that she seemed to walk in an aura of rosy
light. Her Jimmie was so evidently the incarnation of every masculine
virtue and charm that he lent a reflected lustre to other men, even to
her brother. Because of her love for Jimmie, she loved Morton
better--loved everybody better. To have her only brother marry her
dearest friend was wholly pleasant to Susie.
It was not difficult to wring from Vivian a fair knowledge of how
things stood, for, though reserved by nature, she was utterly unused
to concealing anything, and could not tell an efficient lie if she
wanted to.
"Are you engaged or are you not, you dear old thing?" demanded Susie.
And Vivian admitted that there was "an understanding." But Susie
absolutely must not speak of it.
For a wonder she did not, except to Jimmie. But people seemed to make
up their minds on the subject with miraculous agreement. The general
interest in the manifold successes of Mrs. St. Cloud gave way to this
vivid personal interest, and it was discussed from two sides among
their whole circle of acquaintance.
One side thought that a splendid girl was being wasted, sacrificed,
thrown away, on a disagreeable, good-for-nothing fellow. The other
side thought the "interesting" Mr. Elder might have done better; they
did not know what he could see in her.
They, that vaguely important They, before whom we so deeply bow, were
also much occupied in their mind by speculations concerning Mr.
Dykeman and two Possibilities. One quite patently possible, even
probable, giving rise to the complacent "Why, anybody could see
that!" and the other a fascinatingly impossible Possibility of a sort
which allows the even more complacent "Didn't you? Why, I could see it
from the first."
Mr. Dykeman had been a leading citizen in that new-built town for some
ten years, which constituted him almost the Oldest Inhabitant. He was
reputed to be extremely wealthy, though he never said anything about
it, and neither his clothing nor his cigars reeked of affluence.
Perhaps nomadic chambermaids had spread knowledge of those
silver-backed appurtenances, and the long mirror. Or perhaps it was
not woman's gossip at all, but men's gossip, which has wider base, and
wider circulation, too.
Mr. Dykeman had certainly "paid attentions" to Miss Elder. Miss Elder
had undeniably brightened and blossomed most becomingly under these
attentions. He had danced with her, he had driven with her, he had
played piquet with her when he might have played whist. To be sure, he
did these things with other ladies, and had done them for years past,
but this really looked as if there might be something in it.
Mr. Skee, as Mr. Dykeman's oldest friend, was even questioned a little;
but it was not very much use to question Mr. Skee. His manner was not
repellant, and not in the least reserved. He poured forth floods of
information so voluminous and so varied that the recipient was rather
drowned than fed. So opinions wavered as to Mr. Dykeman's intentions.
Then came this lady of irresistible charm, and the unmarried citizens
of the place fell at her feet as one man. Even the married ones
slanted over a little.
Mr. Dykeman danced with her, more than he had with Miss Elder. Mr.
Dykeman drove with her, more than he had with Miss Elder. Mr. Dykeman
played piquet with her, and chess, which Miss Elder could not play.
And Miss Elder's little opening petals of ribbon and lace curled up
and withered away; while Mrs. St. Cloud's silken efflorescence, softly
waving and jewel-starred, flourished apace.
Dr. Bellair had asked Vivian to take a walk with her; and they sat
together, resting, on a high lonely hill, a few miles out of town.
"It's a great pleasure to see this much of you, Dr. Bellair," said the
girl, feeling really complimented.
"I'm afraid you won't think so, my dear, when you hear what I have to
say: what I _have_ to say."
The girl flushed a little. "Are you going to scold me about something?
Have I done anything wrong?" Her eyes smiled bravely. "Go on, Doctor.
I know it will be for my best good."
"It will indeed, dear child," said the doctor, so earnestly that
Vivian felt a chill of apprehension.
"I am going to talk to you 'as man to man' as the story books say; as
woman to woman. When I was your age I had been married three years."
Vivian was silent, but stole out a soft sympathetic hand and slipped it
into the older woman's. She had heard of this early-made marriage, also
early broken; with various dark comments to which she had paid no
attention.
Dr. Bellair was Dr. Bellair, and she had a reverential affection for
her.
There was a little silence. The Doctor evidently found it hard to
begin. "You love children, don't you, Vivian?"
The girl's eyes kindled, and a heavenly smile broke over her face.
"Better than anything in the world," she said.
"Ever think about them?" asked her friend, her own face whitening as she
spoke. "Think about their lovely little soft helplessness--when you hold
them in your arms and have to do _everything_ for them. Have to go and
turn them over--see that the little ear isn't crumpled--that the covers
are all right. Can't you see 'em, upside down on the bath apron,
grabbing at things, perfectly happy, but prepared to howl when it comes
to dressing? And when they are big enough to love you! Little soft arms
that will hardly go round your neck. Little soft cheeks against yours,
little soft mouths and little soft kisses,--ever think of them?"
The girl's eyes were like stars. She was looking into the future; her
breath came quickly; she sat quite still.
The doctor swallowed hard, and went on. "We mostly don't go much
farther than that at first. It's just the babies we want. But you can
look farther--can follow up, year by year, the lovely changing growing
bodies and minds, the confidence and love between you, the pride you
have as health is established, strength and skill developed, and
character unfolds and deepens.
"Then when they are grown, and sort of catch up, and you have those
splendid young lives about you, intimate strong friends and tender
lovers. And you feel as though you had indeed done something for the
world."
She stopped, saying no more for a little, watching the girl's awed
shining face. Suddenly that face was turned to her, full of exquisite
sympathy, the dark eyes swimming with sudden tears; and two soft eager
arms held her close.
"Oh, Doctor! To care like that and not--!"
"Yes, my dear;" said the doctor, quietly. "And not have any. Not be
able to have any--ever."
Vivian caught her breath with pitying intensity, but her friend went
on.
"Never be able to have a child, because I married a man who had
gonorrhea. In place of happy love, lonely pain. In place of
motherhood, disease. Misery and shame, child. Medicine and surgery,
and never any possibility of any child for me."
The girl was pale with horror. "I--I didn't know--" She tried to say
something, but the doctor burst out impatiently:
"No! You don't know. I didn't know. Girls aren't taught a word of
what's before them till it's too late--not _then_, sometimes! Women
lose every joy in life, every hope, every capacity for service or
pleasure. They go down to their graves without anyone's telling them
the cause of it all."
"That was why you--left him?" asked Vivian presently.
"Yes, I left him. When I found I could not be a mother I determined to
be a doctor, and save other women, if I could." She said this with
such slow, grave emphasis that Vivian turned a sudden startled face to
her, and went white to the lips.
"I may be wrong," the doctor said, "you have not given me your
confidence in this matter. But it is better, a thousand times better,
that I should make this mistake than for you to make that. You must
not marry Morton Elder."
Vivian did not admit nor deny. She still wore that look of horror.
"You think he has--That?"
"I do not know whether he has gonorrhea or not; it takes a long
microscopic analysis to be sure; but there is every practical
assurance that he's had it, and I know he's had syphilis."
If Vivian could have turned paler she would have, then.
"I've heard of--that," she said, shuddering.
"Yes, the other is newer to our knowledge, far commoner, and really
more dangerous. They are two of the most terrible diseases known to
us; highly contagious, and in the case of syphilis, hereditary. Nearly
three-quarters of the men have one or the other, or both."
But Vivian was not listening. Her face was buried in her hands. She
crouched low in agonized weeping.
"Oh, come, come, my dear. Don't take it so hard. There's no harm done
you see, it's not too late."
"Oh, it _is_ too late! It is!" wailed the girl. "I have promised to
marry him."
"I don't care if you were at the altar, child; you _haven't_ married
him, and you mustn't."
"I have given my word!" said the girl dully. She was thinking of
Morton now. Of his handsome face, with it's new expression of
respectful tenderness; of all the hopes they had built together; of
his life, so dependent upon hers for its higher interests.
She turned to the doctor, her lips quivering. "He _loves_ me!" she
said. "I--we--he says I am all that holds him up, that helps him to
make a newer better life. And he has changed so--I can see it! He says
he has loved me, really, since he was seventeen!"
The older sterner face did not relax.
"He told me he had--done wrong. He was honest about it. He said he
wasn't--worthy."
"He isn't," said Dr. Bellair.
"But surely I owe some duty to him. He depends on me. And I have
promised--"
The doctor grew grimmer. "Marriage is for motherhood," she said. "That
is its initial purpose. I suppose you might deliberately forego
motherhood, and undertake a sort of missionary relation to a man, but
that is not marriage."
"He loves me," said the girl with gentle stubbornness. She saw Morton's
eyes, as she had so often seen them lately; full of adoration and manly
patience. She felt his hand, as she had felt it so often lately, holding
hers, stealing about her waist, sometimes bringing her fingers to his
lips for a strong slow kiss which she could not forget for hours.
She raised her head. A new wave of feeling swept over her. She saw a
vista of self-sacrificing devotion, foregoing much, forgiving much,
but rejoicing in the companionship of a noble life, a soul rebuilt, a
love that was passionately grateful. Her eyes met those of her friend
fairly. "And I love him!" she said.
"Will you tell that to your crippled children?" asked Dr. Bellair.
"Will they understand it if they are idiots? Will they see it if they
are blind? Will it satisfy you when they are dead?"
The girl shrank before her.
"You _shall_ understand," said the doctor. "This is no case for
idealism and exalted emotion. Do you want a son like Theophile?"
"I thought you said--they didn't have any."
"Some don't--that is one result. Another result--of gonorrhea--is to
have children born blind. Their eyes may be saved, with care. But it
is not a motherly gift for one's babies--blindness. You may have years
and years of suffering yourself--any or all of those diseases
'peculiar to women' as we used to call them! And we pitied the men who
'were so good to their invalid wives'! You may have any number of
still-born children, year after year. And every little marred dead
face would remind you that you allowed it! And they may be deformed
and twisted, have all manner of terrible and loathsome afflictions,
they and their children after them, if they have any. And many do!
dear girl, don't you see that's wicked?"
Vivian was silent, her two hands wrung together; her whole form
shivering with emotion.
"Don't think that you are 'ruining his life,'" said the doctor kindly.
"He ruined it long ago--poor boy!"
The girl turned quickly at the note of sympathy.
"They don't know either," her friend went on. "What could Miss Orella
do, poor little saint, to protect a lively young fellow like that! All
they have in their scatter-brained heads is 'it's naughty but it's
nice!' And so they rush off and ruin their whole lives--and their
wives'--and their children's. A man don't have to be so very wicked,
either, understand. Just one mis-step may be enough for infection."
"Even if it did break his heart, and yours--even if you both lived
single, he because it is the only decent thing he can do now, you
because of a misguided sense of devotion; that would be better than to
commit this plain sin. Beware of a biological sin, my dear; for it
there is no forgiveness."
She waited a moment and went on, as firmly and steadily as she would
have held the walls of a wound while she placed the stitches.
"If you two love each other so nobly and devotedly that it is higher
and truer and more lasting than the ordinary love of men and women,
you might be 'true' to one another for a lifetime, you see. And all
that friendship can do, exalted influence, noble inspiration--that is
open to you."
Vivian's eyes were wide and shining. She saw a possible future, not
wholly unbearable.
"Has he kissed you yet?" asked the doctor suddenly.
"No," she said. "That is--except----"
"Don't let him. You might catch it. Your friendship must be distant.
Well, shall we be going back? I'm sorry, my dear. I did hate awfully
to do it. But I hated worse to see you go down those awful steps from
which there is no returning."
"Yes," said Vivian. "Thank you. Won't you go on, please? I'll come
later."
An hour the girl sat there, with the clear blue sky above her, the
soft steady wind rustling the leaves, the little birds that hopped and
pecked and flirted their tails so near her motionless figure.
She thought and thought, and through all the tumult of ideas it grew
clearer to her that the doctor was right. She might sacrifice herself.
She had no right to sacrifice her children.
A feeling of unreasoning horror at this sudden outlook into a field of
unknown evil was met by her clear perception that if she was old
enough to marry, to be a mother, she was surely old enough to know
these things; and not only so, but ought to know them.
Shy, sensitive, delicate in feeling as the girl was, she had a fair
and reasoning mind.