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 beautifull
y — 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 de
ny. 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.”
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 30