CLARA’S RETURN—THE DRAMA IN THE DOCTOR’S STUDY.
The early days of September had come, and the day of Clara’s return.
Dinah had scoured every pot and pan until they shone like mirrors,
cooked the cakes and “lollypops” generally that Clara had liked so well
as a child, for she was still a child in Dinah’s thought, which took no
note of the changes that four years must bring to a young lady. She
longed for Clara’s final homecoming, for between the twins and her there
had always been a kind of feud, and they were, according to her, “no
comfort to the house;” and though she liked Susie very much, there was
nothing in the world so bright and lovely in her eyes as “Miss Clary.”
All was joy and bustle in the doctor’s house. The “fatted calf,”
figuratively speaking, was ready, and the best chamber, newly fitted up
for Clara, had received the addition of another bed, for Miss Marston
was coming with her, at the cordial invitation of the doctor and Mrs.
Forest. They wished to express their gratitude for her kindness to their
child during her term at Stonybrook, and as Miss Marston had
considerable curiosity to see the eccentric Dr. Forest, it was very
pleasant to accept the invitation. The friendship between her and Clara
had begun early after their meeting, and had soon ripened into a more
tender regard and confidence than either women or men often inspire in
each other. The result of Clara’s tactics regarding _Jaques_ had even
added to this mutual esteem, for Miss Marston frankly confessed that the
motive of the book was noble, and though she thought it too emotional
for young girls as a rule, admitted that it would do no harm to Clara,
because she was disposed to be a “philosopher and an observer,” as she
said. After this, Clara’s reading was never criticised. She was allowed
full range in the college library, and certain of the alcoves, seldom
visited except by one or two of the teachers, were familiar to her. She
had graduated with the first honors, and there were not a few tears of
real regret when she bade her school friends good-bye.
Clara had been home only once during her long absence, and the meeting
with the dear ones at home was a great joy. Miss Marston was introduced,
and then came the embraces: first the mother’s, then the twins, who were
astonished into silence by the queenly carriage and address of Clara.
Dr. Forest stood talking with Miss Marston, waiting his turn, and having
no eyes but for his daughter. She came presently, and Miss Marston
politely moved away. “The sweetest last!” whispered Clara, as her father
pressed her to his heart, answering only, “_Papa’s own girl_.” Here fat
old Dinah was descried in the dining-room, wiping her grinning face with
her apron. At a gesture from Clara she came to the drawing-room door,
and Clara submitted to be hugged, and kissed, and “bressed,” and cried
over till she cried anew herself. Miss Marston looked a little surprised
at this familiarity with a negro servant, until she recalled the fact
that the doctor’s family had lived many years in the South, where, there
being never a possible question of equality before the late civil war,
the negro was often petted even like much-loved brutes.
That evening there was a grand reception in the doctor’s old-fashioned
house, in honor of Clara’s return. Dan came in after all the friends had
arrived, and for a time he saw no one but Clara, who advanced to meet
him, offering him her hand affectionately, but instead of taking it, he
grabbed the whole stately person of his sister and gave her a most
bearish hugging and kissing, which embarrassed her somewhat, perhaps,
because she knew Dr. Delano’s eyes were upon her. She had just left his
side, and the few minutes conversation with him had given her a taste of
feminine power. She had seen in every look, and word, and movement, that
she impressed him deeply. After escaping from Dan’s grip, she glanced
back to Dr. Delano. His eyes were averted. Was it from disgust at Dan’s
rough way of meeting her, or from delicacy? At all events he seemed to
have dropped her out of his thoughts, and was apparently greatly
absorbed in conversation with Leila, and as he talked he occasionally
twisted the long ends of a fine dark moustache. He was a rather
distinguished looking man, perhaps a little too self-conscious, and old
in Leila’s eyes, though in the prime of life, being not much over
thirty.
Before Dan would let Clara go, he said, glancing at the piano, where a
quiet, graceful lady was just sitting down to play, “That washed-out
virgin is your divinity, Miss Marston, I presume.”
“Hush! brother. You will never speak so of her when she has once deigned
to notice you. No one escapes the magic of her style, I assure you.”
“I wouldn’t give a sixpence for one woman’s judgment of another, sis;
but I’ll try on the magic as soon as you like. See! there’s my _bête
noir_ making dead for me;” and leaving his sister to entertain Mrs.
Buzzell, he just nodded to her and went to Susie, who was sitting quite
alone in the corner of the room, pretending to be interested in an album
of photographs. He greeted her with a pleasant word, and her sense of
being neglected vanished instantly. Ah! is it counted a blessing to love
like this poor child? Sentimental or emotional people never count
themselves happy except when floundering in some sea of passionate
madness. Do they not deceive themselves as to the nature of happiness?
Is it well for any human soul to so depend upon another for every thrill
of pleasure; aye, to have the very literal beating of the heart, in its
normal way, dependent upon the smiles, the tender words, of any single
creature among all the good and beautiful beings that the world
contains? Be it wise or foolish, it is the fate of many people to love
in just this mad way; though it excites the contempt of those who can
regulate the play of their emotions as easily as we do the movement of a
clock by raising or lowering the pendulum.
Susie kept on turning the leaves of Clara’s album, though listening
intently to every syllable her lover uttered. Stopping longer over one,
he noticed it. “Clara’s tenth wonder, eh?” he said. “How do you like
it?”
“I think it very beautiful; don’t you?”
“Bosh! she has no color, no life,” he answered, glancing toward the
original. “Why, you are a thousand times prettier, Susie.” This made the
little heart very happy indeed; and she looked up into Dan’s face with a
loving, trusting pride, that touched him for a moment; the next, he was
forced to give his attention to Miss Marston, whose fine voice swelled
through the room in the _brindisi_ of _La Traviata_, the one bit of
Italian music that Dan happened to know well, and as he listened, he was
entranced. The voice seemed to upbear him as on wings. How passionately
the pale little woman sung. Could such a voice belong to the commonplace
lady he had thought Miss Marston to be? A few minutes later, when he was
presented to her, and her little white hand lay in his for a moment, he
longed to kiss it; and was consciously awkward as he spoke the words of
greeting. Miss Marston knew how to put him at his ease at once, he never
suspecting that she was exercising a common art among certain refined
people of society. She made him thoroughly satisfied with the way he had
deported himself, and he left her with a sense of delight, as if he had
covered himself with glory. He returned to her as soon as he could, and
scarcely noticed Susie for the rest of the evening. Susie waited until
sure that Dan had no thought of returning to talk with her any more, and
when she could no longer control her emotion from the company, she crept
away to her room, and cried bitterly, while the sound of music and
joyous laughter from below fell like mockery upon her lonely heart.
Dan’s infatuation for Miss Marston was sudden and irresistible, and soon
became evident to everybody. To Clara it was an evidence of appreciation
which she had thought him incapable of; and having no knowledge of his
relation to Susie, she was delighted, though in her eyes Miss Marston
was too good for Dan, and that he might win her seemed an absurdity. She
thought, however, with the faith in love that all women cherish, that
his admiration would have a softening and refining influence, which in
this case was much needed. Miss Marston was very gracious. She sang for
him whenever he asked her, and without the least effort charmed him in
every way. When he made her a compliment, instead of saying that she
hated flattery, as most country girls have the bad manners to do, she
smiled and thanked him. In truth, her whole air and manner was a
revelation of womanhood to Dan. He received her gracious politeness as a
sign of preference, and before a week had passed, Susie was a millstone
about his neck. She, meanwhile, half dazed with the knowledge of Dan’s
disaffection, and the fate worse than death that hung over her, went
about the house, pale, silent, brooding over the thought of death as the
only possible escape for such as she. Mrs. Forest was quite touched by
her sad face, treated her more kindly than usual, and even seemed
disposed to talk to her. She asked her one day why she never went to see
her friends, as she used to do.
“I have no friends,” Susie answered, with a stony expression that
alarmed Mrs. Forest. What could she mean? “It must be,” she said to
herself, “Dan’s attention to Miss Marston. Poor thing! I wonder if she
really expected him to marry her?”
By-and-by the quick eye of Dr. Forest detected Susie’s condition, and
his anger at his son was bitter and terrible; but he said nothing,
waiting for the end of the week, when Dan would come home for the
Sunday. Saturday evening the doctor came in rather late. He first went
into the drawing-room and staid a few minutes. Dan was basking in the
heaven of Miss Marston’s smiles. The parlor casement windows were open
on the southern veranda, where they sat breathing the odor of the
honeysuckles that climbed over the old wooden pillars. Clara was
scarcely less happy than Dan, for Dr. Delano had been exceedingly
agreeable that special evening, and she had just discovered that he had
a certain, as yet ill-defined, but wholly delicious influence upon her.
Mrs. Forest was delighted. Dr. Delano was a “party” after her own heart;
so she kept discreetly at the further end of the room, and engaged the
twins near her to the best of her ability, that they might not disturb
either the flirtation at the piano or that on the veranda. As the doctor
entered, Leila was teazing Clara about Dr. Delano, who had just left,
and there was no little spite in this teazing, for Leila had fallen in
the doctor’s eyes from what appeared to be a first class object to a
third class one at best, since the advent of Clara.
“Don’t mind her, sister Clara,” said Linnie. “Her nose is out of joint,
that is all.” Leila scowled without turning her head, and continued her
bantering, while Clara kept on improvising pretty variations upon
Weber’s _Dernière Pensée_. “Oh, are you not tired of that gloomy air?”
exclaimed Leila. “You ought to play something more gay, I should say;
perhaps, though, it is appropriate as a wail.”
“Your remarks are very silly, my child,” said Mrs. Forest mildly, “and
quite out of taste.”
“Well, it’s so dull here. One is overpowered by a great event like the
prospect of a marriage. I wouldn’t have Dr. Delano, though, if I was
dying to get married.”
“And pray why not, Miss Wisdom?” asked the doctor.
“Well, he’s too old, in the first place,” replied Leila.
“Old!” repeated Clara, leaving the piano and approaching the back of her
father’s chair. “He is not as old as papa, and I always wanted to marry
papa,” she added, laughing and caressing his head with both her hands.
“Why, Clara!” exclaimed Mrs. Forest. “You make such unaccountably
strange speeches.”
“My girl flatters her old papa, does she not, by comparing him to her
younger slaves?” As he said this he drew one of her hands round to his
lips and kissed it.
“Good-night!” said Linnie, going toward the door. “When Clara and papa
commence making love, I always leave.”
Leila enjoyed this sally immensely, judging by the peal of laughter with
which she greeted it. She kissed her mother, as did Linnie, and then the
doctor, who took the opportunity to whisper to her, “Don’t undress till
you hear me go up stairs. Then I wish you to come down and tell Dan to
come to my study.”
A few minutes later Leila bounced on to the veranda, exclaiming, “Papa
wants you, Dan, in his study. Quick!” and with this she disappeared as
she came.
The summons was so sudden that Miss Marston started; but Dan, knowing
the nature of Leila, did not apprehend that any one had fallen dead in a
fit, as he might otherwise be justified in supposing. He assured Miss
Marston that it was only Leila’s way, said he would be absent but a few
minutes, and expressed a hope to find her on his return.
Dan passed into the parlor through the glass door, meeting Clara, who
joined Miss Marston. He then remembered for the first time that Susie,
despairing probably of seeing him alone, had given him a note when she
had opened the front door for him that evening. He stopped by the parlor
door, out of sight of Miss Marston, and ran over it hurriedly. What it
contained was terrible enough; and the writing was blurred, evidently by
tears, but the effort the poor girl had made to cheat her breaking heart
into the belief that Dan still loved her, was lost on him. He was not
fine enough to understand it.
As Dan crossed the threshold of his father’s study, the doctor wheeled
round from his desk and rose, not offering Dan a seat. Dan saw with an
inward misgiving that a storm was threatening. It burst upon him without
the slightest preliminary.
“Young man,” the doctor said, with perfect command of his voice, “I
suppose you are aware of the condition of Susie Dykes through your
folly.”
Dan silently approached the mantle-piece, on which he leaned for
support, for he was profoundly agitated. The doctor, who noticed
everything, was moved at the signs of wretchedness his words had caused,
and he continued, less severely, “I am sorry for you, my son; but my
greater concern is about this poor girl. To a man it is nothing; to a
woman it is worse than death.”
Dan thought of the gracious being on the veranda, brilliant, refined,
unapproachable, but for whose favor he had dared to hope, and he thought
the misfortune was worse than death for him also; and as he waited,
chewing the end of his youthful moustache, his heart hardened toward the
poor girl who had so tenderly loved, so foolishly trusted him. But his
silence was exasperating the doctor, who, he well knew, would see but
one way to pay for his “folly,” as he had termed it. He said, therefore,
doggedly, without looking up, “What is done is done. I suppose you wish
me to marry her.”
“_I_ wish you to marry her, you young scoundrel!” replied the doctor,
livid with indignation at the heartlessness of his son. “If you have
lost all affection for her, does not your sense of honor prompt you to
make the only reparation possible, when you have done a wrong like this
to an innocent girl?”
“Innocent!” sneered Dan, “I’m not over sure about that, sir.”
Hearing loud words proceeding from the doctor’s study, and guessing what
might be the cause, Susie, pale and trembling, crept down the stairs,
which ended just at the doctor’s door. She heard distinctly these words
from the lips that were so dear to her, and unable to move hand or foot,
she sank down on the stairs. Poor girl! She had obeyed the instinct of
her tender heart, meaning, if Dan was suffering under his father’s anger
for her sake, to go and shield him, woman-like, and take all the blame
on herself. Upon this noble impulse Dan’s words had fallen like cold
steel upon her warm heart. Her wonder was overwhelming when she heard
the doctor reply in a clear, distinct tone:
“Great God! that from a son of mine! Cowardly, ignobly, seeking to cover
your baseness by degrading a weak young girl, whose only fault is loving
you a thousand times more than you deserve. You have sought her and
courted her favor ever since she was thirteen years old. Even as long
ago as that, you promised her marriage, and tattooed yourself with her
name as a seal of the promise. She never doubted your honesty for years,
and when, through her devotion for you and the Devil knows not what arts
exercised on your part, she sacrifices everything a woman can sacrifice,
you would basely desert her. I tell you it is the most damnable act a
man can perpetrate. Brute force and ignorance have oppressed woman in
all history, making her a slave to petty cares, denying her the
political and social equality that belongs by right to human beings, and
making her dependent like a slave. Of course this has cramped woman’s
free growth in every way, and the man who takes advantage of her
weakness, as you have done with Susie Dykes, deserves the execration of
all honorable men.”
“For God’s sake, father, don’t speak so loud!” cried Dan, who was in
mortal terror lest Miss Marston should hear.
“I will neither control my voice nor my indignation at your meanness.
The whole world deserves to know the base dog who would deceive and
betray a woman through her folly in loving him too well.”
“Hold, sir! I have some feeling as well as you, and I won’t stand any
more of this.”
The doctor moved toward the door, and Dan knew well it would not be easy
to escape; nor did he feel much inclined to try it, for he felt the
weakness of guilt. The doctor continued: “You will hear all I have got
to say, and then I have done with you. There can be no question in my
mind that this girl knows only you. Whom has she known, or sought, or
cared for, except you? But this, in my opinion, is of little importance.
The worst women are about good enough for the best of us. See how much
more generous they are! They, in the freshness and cleanness of youth
and health, take husbands who have consorted with the vilest, whose
blood is vitiated with foul diseases, though every woman feels that a
man’s standard of morality should be as high as hers. The sophisms that
men take refuge in, in this connection, are beneath the contempt of
common sense. Sir, you could in no way have made me despise your
character as you have by that one insinuation. Do I not know you, sir?
What are you that you should demand spotless innocence in a young woman?
In this matter every honest man is bound to believe the woman whose
repute is good. Does this girl confess to having been debauched by
others?” demanded the doctor, whose rage knew no bounds.
“Of course not. According to her, she is most immaculate; but I know
better.”
“Do you?” said the doctor, with fine contempt. “No man has a right to
make that statement of any girl of good reputation; and let me tell you,
for the benefit of your ignorance, that scientific men are not so
confident in such cases. You have graduated in the Jim Dykes school, and
all blackguards are wise on such subjects.”
Dan’s respect for his father was greatly tried. His way of showing
resentment was of the Jim Dykes order; and during his father’s outburst
he had been angry enough to have felled any other man to the earth. He
felt dimly something of his father’s moral force and the secret of his
power among men, as he had never done before. He felt abased before the
sublime justice of the doctor; but still the doctor, who understood the
heart so well, did not know of the new sentiment that Dan cherished for
Miss Marston, as for a superior being. He wished he could tell his
father. It would at least be a new complication that would interest him
as a philosopher, and perhaps make him less hard upon him. This passed
through Dan’s mind as the doctor continued, in a calmer tone: “But I
have said enough; more, perhaps, than you will ever understand. The
question now is, are you ready to make this girl the only reparation in
your power?”
“I am no hero,” said Dan, bitterly. “A little while ago it would not
have been so hard. You have wronged me in some things, though I know I
have not done right. Yes, I am ready to marry Susie Dykes to-morrow,
though I confess I would rather die.”
Here the door opened, and Susie, who had heard all, ashy pale and
trembling in every limb, confronted her lover, more dead than alive, and
scarcely able to articulate the words: “God forgive you, Dan, and make
you happy. You will never marry Susie Dykes;” and sinking down exhausted
from her emotion, the doctor caught her and kissed her forehead. “Brave
girl!” he said. “Are you really in earnest? Would you really refuse,
under such circumstances?” “I would die ten thousand deaths,” she cried,
“rather than permit him to make a sacrifice in keeping his word to me,”
and she motioned violently for Dan to leave her presence.
As he rushed from the room and from the house, covered with shame and
self-contempt, Dan was as wretched as his most murderous enemy could
have desired. When the door closed behind him, Susie sobbed bitterly,
and the doctor lifted her bodily and laid her on the lounge.
“I did not think you had so much character,” he said, laying his hands
on her temples. “You are a good girl, though you have thrown away your
heart and gone the way of many. You shall never want a friend, my dear
child. I shall stand by you. Now cheer up, and we will see what can be
done by-and-by.” As he said this, he mixed her a powder, not too
innocuous this time, and as he held it to her lips she moaned, “Oh,
good, kind, noble one, you would be kinder to me if you would help me
end my wretched life. Oh, do, doctor! Do give me something; I will never
tell that it was you.”
“Very likely not. You couldn’t very well, if it was an effective dose,”
said the doctor, trying to be gay for her sake.
“Oh! I mean when I am suffering—dying. Do you think I would tell? Oh,
you do not know me!”
“Nonsense, little one. Now, shut your eyes and let me hold my hand over
them. This powder will soon take effect. You are young, and the world
has need of brave hearts and willing hands like yours. Don’t _feel_
disgraced, and you will not be so in fact. Cultivate the thought that it
is not you, but conventional society that makes it wrong to have a child
by one you love, and right by one you loathe, if you happen to be
married to him. Remember this: grief does not last forever; and if you
are wise, this experience may prove a blessing to you—nothing like it to
show a woman the gold from the dross.” As he said this, music rang out
from happy voices in the parlor, for none but the actors themselves knew
of the drama enacted in the doctor’s study. Susie thought Dan was there
in the parlor, careless of her suffering, and she sobbed aloud in her
agony: “What shall I do? what shall I do?”
“Put your whole trouble on me. Go straight to bed, now, and take this
powder along, but don’t take it if you can get to sleep without it. I
will go and talk with Mrs. Forest, and see if she will help us.”
“_Us_,” repeated Susie, covering the doctor’s hand with tears and
kisses. “You are as good as Christ was, and if I live, I will show you
how I thank you for your goodness—how I love you for being so good to me
in this awful time.”
“Trust me, child. I shall be the same to you to-morrow and every day.
Bear up bravely, and all will come out right.”
Susie tottered up stairs and sought her little room. She threw herself
down by her bed, and wept and prayed, but no peace came to her troubled
soul. She forgot the doctor’s powder, and when she woke, it was nearly
daylight, and she was lying faint and ill on the floor beside her bed.
She took the powder then, and with great effort got her clothes off and
went to bed.