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--she
had been so much with him, had been so kind to him; kinder than Carston
comment "knew for a fact," but not kinder than it surmised.
Then, though his dress remained as quietly correct, his face assumed a
worn and anxious look, and he no longer offered her long auto rides or
other expensive entertainment. She saw men on the piazza stop talking
as he came by, and shake their heads as they looked after him; but no
one would tell her anything definite till she questioned Mr. Skee.
"I am worried about Mr. Dykeman," she said to this ever-willing
confidant, 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 stand
beside, 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 was
persuaded to sit in one, it was either facing the back, cross-saddle
and bent forward, or--and this was the utmost decorum he was able to
approach--tipped backward against the wall.
"He does not look well," said the lady, "you are old friends--do tell
me; 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 in
a worse place than his heart. I wouldn't betray a friend's confidence
for any money, Ma'am; but this is all over town. It'll go hard with
Andy, I'm afraid, at his age."
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she whispered. "So sorry! But surely with a man of
his abilities it will be only a temporary reverse!--"
"Dunno 'bout the abilities--not in this case. Unless he has ability
enough 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. "Andy
had a bang-up mine, galena ore--not gold, you understand, but often
pays better. And he kept on putting the money it made back into it to
make more. Then, all of a sudden, it petered out! No more eggs in that
basket. 'Course he can't sell it--now. And last year he refused half a
million. Andy's sure down on his luck."
"But he will recover! You western men are so wonderful! He will find
another mine!"
"O yes, he _may_! Certainly he _may_, Ma'am. Not that he found this
one--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 was
salted--that's my motto! But Andy's got no more money to buy any
mines. 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 in
their parlor, could not help hearing. Miss Elder gave a little gasp and
clasped her hands tightly, but Miss Pettigrew arose, and came outside.
"What's this about Mr. Dykeman?" she questioned abruptly. "Has he had
losses?"
"There now," said Mr. Skee, remorsefully, "I never meant to give him
away like that. Mrs. Pettigrew, Ma'am, I must beg you not to mention it
further. I was only satisfyin' this lady here, in answer to sympathetic
anxiety, 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', or
something like that--though he's not a brilliant man, Andy isn't. You
needn'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. He
returned 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, out
here. 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 lost
his 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! To
think of his having to be provided for by his friends--and having to
take 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 no
protest, gave no confidences; but it soon appeared that he was working
in an office; and furthermore that this position was given him by Mr.
Skee.
That gentleman, though discreetly reticent as to his own affairs, now
appeared in far finer raiment than he had hitherto affected; developed
a pronounced taste in fobs and sleeve buttons; and a striking harmony
in socks and scarfs.
Men talked openly of him; no one seemed to know anything definite, but
all were certain that "Old Skee must have struck it rich."
Mr. Skee kept his own counsel; but became munificent in gifts and
entertainments. 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; "but
I understand it's the thing. In fact I'm sure of it--for I've
consulted 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 that
I imagine Jim Saunders ever was much of a--Egyptian--but then----!"
He consulted her also about Vivian--did she not think the girl looked
worn and ill? Wouldn't it be a good thing to send her off for a trip
somewhere?
He consulted her about a library; said he had always wanted a library
of his own, but the public ones were somewhat in his way. How many
books did she think a man ought really to own--to spend his declining
years among. Also, and at considerable length he consulted her about
the best possible place of residence.
"I'm getting to be an old man, Mrs. St. Cloud," he remarked
meditatively; "and I'm thinking of buying and building somewhere. But
it's a ticklish job. Lo! these many years I've been perfectly contented
to live wherever I was at; and now that I'm considering a real
Home--blamed if I know where to put it! I'm distracted between A Model
Farm, and A Metropolitan Residence. Which would you recommend, Ma'am?"
The lady's sympathy and interest warmed to Mr. Skee as they cooled to
Mr. Dykeman, not with any blameworthy or noticeable suddenness, but in
soft graduations, steady and continuous. The one wore his new glories
with an air of modest pride; making no boast of affluence; and the
other 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 bravely
of the beauty of limited means; and when it was time to present her
weekly 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 omission
repeated on the following week, he stood by his window smiling
thoughtfully for some time, and then went in search of Miss Orella.
She sat by her shaded lamp, alone, knitting a silk tie which was
promptly hidden as he entered. He stood by the door looking at her in
spite of her urging him to be seated, observing the warm color in her
face, the graceful lines of her figure, the gentle smile that was so
unfailingly attractive. Then he came forward, calmly inquiring, "Why
haven'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't
like. But I did hear that you were--temporarily embarrassed. And I
want you to feel sure, Mr. Dykeman, that to your real friends it makes
no difference in the _least_. And if--for a while that is--it should
be a little more convenient to--to defer payment, please feel
perfectly at liberty to wait!"
She stood there blushing like a girl, her sweet eyes wet with shining
tears 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 a
clerk's salary--as long as I live?"
Again she nodded.
He took a step or two back and forth in the quiet parlor, and returned
to her.
"Would you marry a poor man?" he asked in a low tender voice. "Would you
marry 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 utter
satisfaction. "Now I am rich indeed," he said softly.
She held him off a little. "Don't talk about being rich. It doesn't
matter. If you like to live here--why this house will keep us both. If
you'd rather have a little one--I can live _so_ happily--on _so_
little! And there is my own little home in Bainville--perhaps you
could find something to do there. I don't care the least in the
world--so long as you love me!"
"I've loved you since I first set eyes on you," he answered her. "To
see the home you've made here for all of us was enough to make any man
love you. But I thought awhile back that I hadn't any chance--you
weren't jealous of that Artificial Fairy, were you?"
And conscientiously Miss Orella lied.
Carston society was pleased, but not surprised at Susie's engagement; it
was both pleased and surprised when Miss Elder's was announced. Some
there were who protested that they had seen it from the beginning; but
disputatious friends taxed them with having prophesied quite otherwise.
Some thought Miss Elder foolish to take up with a man of full middle
age, and with no prospects; and others attributed the foolishness to
Mr. Dykeman, in marrying an old maid. Others again darkly hinted that
he 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 his
wife keep boarders!"
In Bainville circles the event created high commotion. That one of their
accumulated maidens, part of the Virgin Sacrifice of New England, which
finds not even a Minotaur--had thus triumphantly escaped from their
ranks and achieved a husband; this was flatly heretical. The fact that
he was a poor man was the only mitigating circumstance, leaving it open
to the more captious to criticize the lady sharply.
But the calm contentment of Andrew Dykeman's face, and the decorous
bliss of Miss Elder's were untroubled by what anyone thought or said.
Little Susie was delighted, and teased for a double wedding; without
success. "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. Bellair
left her on the hill, left her alone in a strange new horrible world,
was still glaring across her consciousness, the end of one life, the
bar to any other. Its small events were as clear to her as those which
stand out so painfully on a day of death; all that led up to the
pleasant walk, when an eager girl mounted the breezy height, and a
sad-faced woman came down from it.
She had waited long and came home slowly, dreading to see a face she
knew, dreading worst of all to see Morton. The boy she had known so
long, the man she was beginning to know, had changed to an
unbelievable horror; and the love which had so lately seemed real to
her recoiled upon her heart with a sense of hopeless shame.
She wished--eagerly, desperately, she wished--she need never see him
again. She thought of the man's resource of running away--if she could
just _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 terrors
were not in Bainville, surely. Then the sickening thought crept in that
perhaps they were--only they did not know it. Besides, she had no money
to go with. If only she had started that little school sooner! Write to
her 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 horror
and marriage impossible. She pushed the idea from her, impotently, as
one might push at a lava flow.
In her wide reading she had learned in a vague way of "evil"--a
distant undescribed evil which was in the world, and which must be
avoided. She had known that there was such a thing as "sin," and
abhorred the very thought of it.
Morton's penitential confessions had given no details; she had
pictured 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 the
family entirely that evening, avoided Susie, went to her grandmother
and asked if she might come and sleep on the lounge in her room.
"Surely, my child, glad to have you," said Mrs. Pettigrew
affectionately. "Better try my bed--there's room a-plenty."
The girl lay long with those old arms about her, crying quietly. Her
grandmother asked no questions, only patted her softly from time to
time, 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 wise
old 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 forget
that other folks can't stand 'em. She was too hard on you, dearie."
But Vivian defended the doctor. "Oh, no, Grandma. She did
it beautifully. And it hurt her so. She told me about her
own--disappointment."
"Yes, I remember her as a girl, you see. A fine sweet girl she was
too. It was an awful blow--and she took it hard. It has made her
bitter, I think, perhaps; that and the number of similar cases she had
to cope with."
"But, Grandma--is it--_can_ it be as bad as she said? Seventy-five per
cent! Three-quarters of--of everybody!"
"Not everybody dear, thank goodness. Our girls are mostly clean, and
they save the race, I guess."
"I don't even want to _see_ a man again!" said the girl with low
intensity.
"Shouldn't think you would, at first. But, dear child--just brace
yourself and look it fair in the face! The world's no worse than it
was yesterday--just because you know more about it!"
"No," Vivian admitted, "But it's like uncovering a charnel house!" she
shuddered.
"Never saw a charnel house myself," said the old lady, "even with the
lid on. But now see here child; you mustn't feel as if all men were
Unspeakable Villains. They are just ignorant boys--and nobody ever
tells 'em the truth. Nobody used to know it, for that matter. All this
about gonorrhea is quite newly discovered--it has set the doctors all
by the ears. Having women doctors has made a difference too--lots of
difference."
"Besides," she went on after a pause, "things are changing very fast
now, since the general airing began. Dr. Prince Morrow in New York,
with that society of his--(I can never remember the name--makes me
think of tooth brushes) has done much; and the popular magazines have
taken 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 to
think it is not proper to know anything about the worst danger before
them. 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 her
children--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 any
good."
After awhile she continued: "Women are waking up to this all over the
country, now. Nice women, old and young. The women's clubs and
congresses are taking it up, as they should. Some states have passed
laws requiring a medical certificate--a clean bill of health--to go
with a license to marry. You can see that's reasonable! A man has to
be examined to enter the army or navy, even to get his life insured;
Marriage and Parentage are more important than those things! And we
are beginning to teach children and young people what they ought to
know. 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 on
the brink of perdition. Remember that we've got a whole quarter of the
men to bank on. That's a good many, in this country. We're not so bad
as Europe--not yet--in this line. Then just think of this, child. We
have lived, and done splendid things all these years, even with this
load of disease on us. Think what we can do when we're rid of it! And
that'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 stop
it! Think of that. We can religiously rid the world of all
these--'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 sound
through 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, by
any means; it was quite another to tell Morton.
He gave her no good opportunity. He did not say again, "Will you marry
me?" So that she could say, "No," and be done with it. He did not even
say, "When will you marry me?" to which she could answer "Never!" He
merely took it for granted that she was going to, and continued to
monopolize her as far as possible, with all pleasant and comfortable
attentions.
She forced the situation even more sharply than she wished, by turning
from him with a shiver when he met her on the stairs one night and
leaned 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 several
days. Have I done anything you don't like?"
"Oh, Morton!" His question was so exactly to the point; and so
exquisitely inadequate! He had indeed.
"I care too much for you to let anything stand between us now," he
went on.
"Come, there's no one in the upper hall--come and 'tell me the
worst.'"
"As well now as ever." thought the girl. Yet when they sat on the long
window seat, and he turned his handsome face toward her, with that
newer, better look on it, she could not believe that this awful thing
was true.
"Now then--What is wrong between us?" he said.
She answered only, "I will tell you the worst, Morton. I cannot marry
you--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 you
with my whole heart. What have I done--that I have not told you?"
Then she recalled his contrite confessions; and contrasted what he had
told her with what he had not; with the unspeakable fate to which he
would have consigned her--and those to come; and a sort of holy rage
rose 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 utter
abashment, but he did nothing of the kind. What he did do astonished
her beyond measure. He rose to his feet, with clenched fists.
"Has that damned doctor been giving me away?" he demanded. "Because if
he 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 little
slippers! And I wasn't going to ask you to marry me till I felt sure
this was all done with. All the rest of my life was yours, darling--is
yours. 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 a
woman, but the hope of a life. Things he had never thought about
before had now grown dear to him; a home, a family, an honorable place
in 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 hands
tight clenched in her lap.
"Where'd you get this idea anyhow?" he burst out again. "I believe
it's that woman doctor! What does she know!"
"Look here, Morton," said Vivian firmly. "It is not a question of who
told me. The important thing is that it's--true! And I cannot marry
you."
"But Vivian--" he pleaded, trying to restrain the intensity of his
feeling; "men get over these things. They do, really. It's not so
awful as you seem to think. It's very common. And I'm nearly well. I
was going to wait a year or two yet--to make sure--. Vivian! I'd cut
my hand off before I'd hurt you!"
There was real agony in his voice, and her heart smote her; but there
was something besides her heart ruling the girl now.
"I am sorry--I'm very sorry," she said dully. "But I will not marry
you."
"You'll throw me over--just for that! Oh, Vivian don't--you can't. I'm
no worse than other men. It seems so terrible to you just because
you're so pure and white. It's only what they call--wild oats, you
know. Most men do it."
She shook her head.
"And will you punish me--so cruelly--for that? I can't live without
you, Vivian--I won't!"
"It is not a question of punishing you, Morton," she said gently. "Nor
myself. It is not the sin I am considering. It is the consequences!"
He felt a something high and implacable in the gentle girl; something
he had never found in her before. He looked at her with despairing
eyes. 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'll
be 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't
right 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 something
to--stop this awfulness?"
Her tender heart suffered in the pain she was inflicting, suffered too
in her own loss; for as she faced the thought of final separation she
found that her grief ran back into the far-off years of childhood. But
she had made up her mind with a finality only the more absolute
because it hurt her. Even what he said of possible recovery did not
move her--the very thought of marriage had become impossible.
"I shall never marry," she added, with a shiver; thinking that he
might derive some comfort from the thought; but he replied with a
bitter derisive little laugh. He did not rise to her appeal to "help
the others." So far in life the happiness of Morton Elder had been his
one engrossing care; and now the unhappiness of Morton Elder assumed
even larger proportions.
That bright and hallowed future to which he had been looking forward
so earnestly had been suddenly withdrawn from him; his good
resolutions, his "living straight" for the present, were wasted.
"You women that are so superior," he said, "that'll turn a man down
for things that are over and done with--that he's sorry for and
ashamed of--do you know what you drive a man to! What do you think's
going to become of me if you throw me over!"
He reached out his hands to her in real agony. "Vivian! I love you! I
can't live without you! I can't be good without you! And you love me a
little--don't you?"
She did. She could not deny it. She loved to shut her eyes to the
future, to forgive the past, to come to those outstretched arms and
bury everything beneath that one overwhelming phrase--"I love you!"
But she heard again Dr. Bellair's clear low accusing voice--"Will you
tell that to your crippled children?"
She rose to her feet. "I cannot help it, Morton. I am sorry--you will
not believe how sorry I am! But I will never marry you."
A look of swift despair swept over his face. It seemed to darken
visibly 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 better
feeling fell from him; and even as she pitied him she thought with a
flicker of fear of how this might have happened--after marriage.
"Oh, well!" he said, rising to his feet. "I wish you could have made
up 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 of
you--I always was.--Won't you let me help you--to bear it--! Can't we
be--friends?"
Again he laughed that bitter little laugh. "No, Miss Lane," he said. "We
distinctly cannot. This is good-bye--You won't change your mind--again?"
She shook her head in silence, and he left her.