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 mountain
climber. Here was a man, an unattached man, living next door to her,
whom she had not even seen. Her pursuance of what Mr. Skee announced
to his friends to be "one of these Platonic Friendships," did not
falter; neither did her interest in other relations less philosophic.
Mr. Dykeman's precipitate descent from the class of eligibles was more
of a disappointment to her than she would admit even to herself; his
firm, kind friendliness had given a sense of comfort, of achieved
content that her restless spirit missed.
But Dr. Hale, if he had been before inaccessible, had now become so
heavily 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. That
Mr. Skee, free lance of years standing, and risen victor from several
"stricken fields," should show signs of capitulation, annoyed him
further. Whether these feelings derived their intensity from another,
which he entirely refused to acknowledge, is matter for the
psychologist, and Dr. Hale avoided all psychologic self-examination.
With the boys he was always a hero. They admired his quiet strength
and the unbroken good nature that was always presented to those about
him, whatever his inner feelings.
Mr. Peters burst forth to the others one day, in tones of impassioned
admiration.
"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 a
scientific discovery. Strange how these secrets of nature can lie
unrevealed about us so long--and then suddenly burst upon our ken!"
Mr. Peters grinned affably. "That's all right, but I maintain my
assertion; whatever the general attraction of our noble host, you'll
admit that on the special occasion of yesterday evening, which we
celebrated to a late hour by innocent games of cards--he was--as
usual--the soul of--of----"
"Affability?" suggested Percy.
"Precisely!" Peters admitted. "If there is a well-chosen word which
perfectly describes the manner of Dr. Richard Hale--it is affable!
Thank you, sir, thank you. Well, what I wish to announce, so that you
can all of you get down on your knees at once and worship, is that all
last 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 a
toothache and not _mention_ it? Not even mention it--without
exaggeration! Why Archimedes couldn't do that! Or--Sandalphon--or any
of them!"
"How'd you learn the facts, my son? Tell us that."
"Heard him on the 'phone making an appointment. 'Yes;' 'since noon
yesterday,' 'yes, pretty severe.' '11:30? You can't make it earlier?
All right.' I'm just mentioning it to convince you fellows that you
don't appreciate your opportunities. There was some exceptional Female
once--they said 'to know her was a liberal education.' What would you
call it to live with Dr. Hale?"
And they called it every fine thing they could think of; for these
boys knew better than anyone else, the effect of that association.
His patients knew him as wise, gentle, efficient, bringing a sense of
hope and assurance by the mere touch of that strong hand; his
professional associates in the town knew him as a good practitioner
and friend, and wider medical circles, readers of his articles in the
professional press had an even higher opinion of his powers.
Yet none of these knew Richard Hale. None saw him sitting late in his
office, the pages of his book unturned, his eyes on the red spaces of
the fire. No one was with him on those night tramps that left but an
hour or two of sleep to the long night, and made that sleep irresistible
from self-enforced fatigue. He had left the associations of his youth
and deliberately selected this far-off mountain town to build the life
he chose; and if he found it unsatisfying no one was the wiser.
His successive relays of boys, young fellows fresh from the East, coming
from 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. As
they 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 the
one thing you can't talk to him about--shuts up like a clam. Of
course, 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 did
happen 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 her
inquisitiveness, and asked him once, "Why is it that you have never
married, Dr. Hale?" And that he had replied, "It is owing to my
dislike of the meddlesomeness of women." He lived his own life,
unquestioned, now more markedly withdrawn than ever, coming no more to
The Cottonwoods.
Even when Morton Elder left, suddenly and without warning, to the
great grief of his aunt and astonishment of his sister, their medical
neighbor still "sulked in his tent"--or at least in his office.
Morton's departure had but one explanation; it must be that Vivian had
refused him, and she did not deny it.
"But why, Vivian, why? He has improved so--it was just getting lovely
to see how nice he was getting. And we all thought you were so happy."
Thus the perplexed Susie. And Vivian found herself utterly unable to
explain to that happy little heart, on the brink of marriage, why she
had refused her brother.
Miss Orella was even harder to satisfy. "It's not as if you were a
foolish changeable young girl, my dear. And you've known Morton all
your 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 the
best--and that it was very hard for me, too."
"But, Vivian! What can be the reason? I don't think you understand
what 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 in
town--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 feel
easy about him again."
Miss Orella was frankly crying; and it wrung the girl's heart to know
the pain she was causing; not only to Morton, and to herself, but to
these others.
Susie criticised her with frankness.
"I know you think you are right, Vivian, you always do--you and that
conscience of yours. But I really think you had gone too far to draw
back, Jimmie saw him that night he went away--and he said he looked
awfully. And he really was changed so--beginning to be so thoroughly
nice. Whatever was the matter? I think you ought to tell me, Vivian,
I'm his sister, and--being engaged and all--perhaps I could straighten
it out."
And she was as nearly angry as her sunny nature allowed, when her
friend 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 a
lifetime's happiness for some foolish quarrel."
Miss Orella, like Susie, was at present sure that marriage must mean a
lifetime's happiness. And Vivian looked miserably from one to the other
of 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 have
her favorite grandchild thus condemned and keep silence. "Anybody'd
think Vivian had married the man and then run away with another one!"
she said tartly. "Pity if a girl can't change her mind before
marrying--she's held down pretty close afterward. An engagement isn't
a 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'm
willing to bet as much as you will that his feelings aren't any worse
than hers. If _he'd_ changed his mind and run off and left _her_, I
warrant you two wouldn't have been so hard on him."
Evading this issue, Miss Orella wiped her eyes, and said: "Heaven
knows where he is now. And I'm afraid he won't write--he never did
write much, and now he's just heartbroken. I don't know as I'd have
seen him at all if I hadn't been awake and heard him rushing
downstairs. You've no idea how he suffers."
"I don't see as the girl's to blame that he hadn't decency enough to
say good-bye to the aunt that's been a mother to him; or to write to
her, as he ought to. A person don't need to forget _all_ their duty
because 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 constant
admiration and attention had become. She missed the outward
agreeableness, and the soft tide of affection, which had risen
more and more warmly about her. From her earliest memories she
had wished for affection--affection deep and continuous, tender
and with full expression. She had been too reserved to show her
feeling, too proud by far to express it, but under that delicate
reticence of hers lay always that deep longing to love and to be
loved wholly.
Susie had been a comfort always, in her kittenish affection and
caressing ways, but Susie was doubly lost, both in her new absorption
and now in this estrangement.
Then, to bring pain to Miss Orella, who had been so kind and sweet to
her from earliest childhood, to hurt her so deeply, now, to mingle in
her cup of happiness this grief and anxiety, made the girl suffer
keenly. Jimmie, of course, was able to comfort Susie. He told her it
was no killing matter anyhow, and that Morton would inevitably console
himself 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, but
with his tender sympathy and hopefulness. But no one could comfort
Vivian.
Even Dr. Bellair seemed to her present sensitiveness an alien, cruel
power. She had come like the angel with the flaming sword to stand
between 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 made
love too warmly, that she had been far from wholly pleased with him
when he made his appearance there, that their engagement, so far as
they had one, was tentative--"sometime, when I am good enough" not
having arrived. The unreasoning voice of the woman's nature within her
had answered, though but partially, to the deep call of the man's; and
now she missed more than she would admit to herself the tenderness
that was gone.
She had her intervals of sharp withdrawal from the memory of that
tenderness, of deep thanksgiving for her escape; but fear of a danger
only prophesied, does not obliterate memory of joys experienced.
Her grandmother watched her carefully, saying little. She forced no
confidence, made no comment, was not obtrusively affectionate, but
formed 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 it
easier."
"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 a
thing like that--to a girl like that. But it had to be done; and
nobody else would."
"You did perfectly right. I'm thankful enough, I promise you; if you
hadn't I should have had to--and goodness knows what a mess I'd have
made. But look here, the girl's going all to pieces. Now we've got to
do something for her, and do it quick."
"I know that well enough," answered her friend, "and I set about it
even before I made the incision. You've seen that little building
going 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 finished
inside. It's a first-rate little kindergarten. I've got a list of
scholars all arranged for, and am going to pop the girl into it so
fast 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 work
with enthusiasm.
As a prescription nothing could have worked better. Enough small
pupils were collected to pay the rent of the pretty place, and leave a
modest income for her.
Dr. Bellair gathered together the mothers and aunts for a series of
afternoon talks in the convenient building, Vivian assisting, and
roused much interest among them. The loving touch of little hands, the
pleasure of seeing the gay contentment of her well-ordered charges,
began to lighten the girl's heart at last. They grew so fond of her
that the mothers were jealous, but she played with and taught them so
wisely, and the youngsters were so much improved by it, that no parent
withdrew 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 whole
world became strait unto him." The sense of final closing down of
life, of a dull, long, narrow path between her and the grave, which
had so oppressed the girl's spirit, now changed rapidly. Here was room
to love at least, and she radiated a happy and unselfish affection
among 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 work
took her out of the house, too; away from Susie and her aunt, with
their happy chatter and endless white needlework, and the gleeful
examination 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 her
key in the door of the little gray house sitting among the roses, she
felt a distinct lightening of the heart. This was hers. Not her
father's, not Miss Elder's; not anybody's but hers--as long as she
could 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 rather
make me go away and board somewhere else?" She could not accept favors
where she was condemned.
This, too, gave her a feeling hitherto inexperienced, deep and
inspiring. She began to hold her graceful head insensibly higher, to
walk with a freer step. Life was not ended after all, though Love had
gone. 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 to
undertake, as a special favor to her, the care of a class of rather
delicate children and young girls, in physical culture.
"Of course, Johanna Johnson is perfectly reliable and an excellent
teacher. I don't know a better; but their mothers will feel easier if
there's someone they know on the spot. You keep order and see that they
don't overdo. You'll have to go through their little exercises with
them, you see. I can't pay you anything for it; but it's only part of
two 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 to
extend her friendship among older children; also glad of anything to
further fill her time. To be alone and idle was to think and suffer.
Mrs. Pettigrew came in with Dr. Bellair one afternoon to watch the
exercises.
"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 with
the children is just what they needed. You see there's no romping and
foolishness, 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 carriage
and swinging step, her warm color and sparkling eyes, as she led the
line 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 to
be chief bridesmaid, but seeing the happiness before her opened again
the gates of her own pain.
When it was all over, and the glad young things were safely despatched
upon 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 set
forth 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--all
hers now, looking strangely large and empty--and set down among the
drifts of white tissue paper and scattered pins--alone.
She sank down on the bed, weary and sad at heart, for an hour of full
surrender long refused; meaning for once to let her grief have its
full way with her. But, just as on the night of her hurried engagement
she had been unable to taste to the full the happiness expected, so
now, surrender as she might, she could not feel the intensity of
expected 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 shall
never marry," and she felt a little shiver of the horror of last year.
But, having got this far in melancholy contemplation, her mind refused
to dwell upon it, but filled in spite of her with visions of merry
little ones, prancing in wavering circles, and singing their more
wavering songs. She was lonely and a single woman--but she had
something 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 hurried
departure. He had gone farther West; they had heard of him in San
Francisco, they had heard of him, after some months, in the Klondike
region, then they had heard no more. He did not write. It seemed hard to
so deeply hurt his aunt for what was no fault of hers; but Morton had
never considered her feelings very deeply, his bitter anger, his
hopelessness, his desperate disappointment, blinding him to any pain
but 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 a
trouble to his aunt, such a continuous disappointment and mortification;
to the man whose wooing, looked back upon at this distance, seemed far
less attractive to the memory than it had been at the time. Even his
honest attempt at improvement gave her but a feeling of pity, and though
pity is akin to love it is not always a near relation.
From her unresisting descent into wells of pain, which proved
unexpectedly shallow, the girl arose presently and quietly set to work
arranging the room in its new capacity as hers only.
From black and bitter agony to the gray tastelessness of her present
life was not an exciting change, but Vivian had more power in quiet
endurance than in immediate resistance, and set herself now in earnest
to fulfill the tasks before her.
This was March. She was planning an extension of her classes, the
employment of an assistant. Her work was appreciated, her school
increased. Patiently and steadily she faced her task, and found a
growing comfort in it. When summer came, Dr. Bellair again begged her
to help out in the plan of a girls' camp she was developing.
This was new work for Vivian, but her season in Mrs. Johnson's
gymnastic class had given her a fresh interest in her own body and the
use of it. That stalwart instructress, a large-boned, calm-eyed
Swedish woman, was to be the manager of the camp, and Vivian this
time, 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 children
and young people."
"It is a wonderful thing to me," observed Mrs. Pettigrew. "You go to a
wild place that costs no rent; you run a summer hotel without any
accommodations; you get a lot of parents to pay handsomely for letting
their 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's
precisely the roughing it that does them good."
It did do them good; the group of young women and girls who went to
the high-lying mountain lake where Dr. Bellair had bought a piece of
wild, rough country for her own future use, and none of them profited
by it more than Vivian.
She had been, from time to time, to decorous "shore places," where one
could do nothing but swim and lie on the sand; or to the "mountains,"
those trim, green, modest, pretty-picture mountains, of which New
England is so proud; but she had never before been in an untouched
wilderness.
Often in the earliest dawn she would rise from the springy, odorous
bed of balsam boughs and slip out alone for her morning swim. A run
through the pines to a little rocky cape, with a small cave she knew,
and to glide, naked, into that glass-smooth water, warmer than the
sunless air, and swim out softly, silently, making hardly a ripple,
turn on her back and lie there--alone with the sky--this brought
peace to her heart. She felt so free from every tie to earth, so like
a soul in space, floating there with the clean, dark water beneath
her, and the clear, bright heaven above her; and when the pale glow in
the east brightened to saffron, warmed to rose, burst into a level
blaze 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 wild
berries, learned to cook in primitive fashion, slept as she had never
slept in her life, from dark to dawn, grew brown and hungry and
cheerful.
After all, twenty-seven was not an old age.
She came back at the summer-end, and Dr. Bellair clapped her warmly on
the shoulder, declaring, "I'm proud of you, Vivian! Simply proud of
you!"
Her grandmother, after a judicious embrace, held her at arm's length
and examined her critically.
"I don't see but what you've stood it first rate," she admitted. "And
if you _like_ that color--why, you certainly are looking well."
She was well, and began her second year of teaching with a serene
spirit.
In all this time of slow rebuilding Vivian would not have been left
comfortless if masculine admiration could have pleased her. The young
men at The Cottonwoods, now undistracted by Susie's gay presence,
concentrated much devotion upon Vivian, as did also the youths across
the way. She turned from them all, gently, but with absolute decision.
Among her most faithful devotees was young Percy Watson, who loved her
almost as much as he loved Dr. Hale, and could never understand, in his
guileless, 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 heart
to Vivian about how the doctor worked too hard--sat up all hours to
study--didn't give himself any rest--nor any fun.
"He'll break down some time--I tell him so. It's not natural for any
man to work that way, and I don't see any real need of it. He says
he's working on a book--some big medical book, I suppose; but what's
the hurry? I wish you'd have him over here oftener, and make him amuse
himself a little, Miss Vivian."
"Dr. Hale is quite welcome to come at any time--he knows that," said
she.
Again the candid Percy, sitting on the doctor's shadowy piazza, poured
out his devoted admiration for her to his silent host.
"She's the finest woman I ever knew!" the boy would say. "She's so
beautiful and so clever, and so pleasant to everybody. She's
_square_--like a man. And she's kind--like a woman, only kinder; a
sort of motherliness about her. I don't see how she ever lived so long
without being married. I'd marry her in a minute if I was good
enough--and if she'd have me."
Dr. Hale tousled the ears of Balzac, the big, brown dog whose head was
so often on his knee, and said nothing. He had not seen the girl since
that night by the arbor.
Later in the season he learned, perforce, to know her better, and to
admire 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 was
long unable to leave her bed. Since her aunt was not there, but gone,
as Mrs. Dykeman, on an extended tour--"part business and part
honeymoon," her husband told her--and since Mrs. Pettigrew now ruled
alone at The Cottonwoods, with every evidence of ability and
enjoyment, Vivian promptly installed herself in the Saunders home, as
general housekeeper and nurse.
She was glad then of her strength, and used it royally, comforting the
wretched Jim, keeping up Susie's spirits, and mothering the frail tiny
baby 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 the
virtues he admired most in women.
He made his calls as short as possible; but even so, Vivian could not
but note how his sternness gave way to brusque good cheer for the sick
mother, and to a lovely gentleness with the child.
When that siege was over and the girl returned to her own work, she
carried pleasant pictures in her mind, and began to wonder, as had so
many others, why this man, who seemed so fitted to enjoy a family, had
none.
She missed his daily call, and wondered further why he avoided them
more assiduously than at first.