Book: A Spinner in the Sun

M >> Myrtle Reed >> A Spinner in the Sun




Farther on, doubtless, as he thought, she would come closer. She might
throw back her veil as she had done on that terrible night, or lay her
cold hand on his--she might even speak to him. What hideous
conversations they might have--he and the woman he had once loved and
to whom he was still bound! Anthony Dexter knew now that even his
marriage had not released him and that Evelina had held him, through
all the five-and-twenty years.

Such happiness as he had known had been purely negative. The thrill of
joyous life had died, for him, the day he took Evelina into the
laboratory. He was no longer capable of caring for any one except
Ralph. The remnant of his cowardly heart was passionately and wholly
given to his son.

He meditated laying his case before Ralph. as one physician to
another, then the inmost soul of him shuddered at the very thought.
Rather than have Ralph know, he would die a thousand deaths. He would
face the uttermost depths of hell, rather than see those clear, honest
eyes fixed upon him in judgment.

He might go to the city to see a specialist--it would be an easy matter
to accomplish, and Ralph would gladly attend to his work. Yes, he
might go--he and Evelina. He could go to a brother physician and say:

"This woman haunts me. She saved my life and continually follows me.
I want her kept away. What, do you not see her, too?"

Anthony Dexter laughed harshly, and fancied that the veiled figure
paused slightly at the sound. "No," he said, aloud, "you need not
prepare for travel, Evelina. We shall not go to the city--you and I."

That was his mate, walking in his garden before him, veiled. She was
his and he was hers. They were mated as two atoms of hydrogen and one
of oxygen, forming a molecule of water. All these years, her suffering
had reacted upon him, kept him from being happy, and made him fight
continually to keep her out of his remembrance. For having kept her
out, he was paying, now, with compound interest.

Upon a lofty spire of granite stands a wireless telegraph instrument.
Fogs are thick about it, wild surges crash in the unfathomable depths
below; the silence is that of chaos, before the first day of creation.
Out of the emptiness, a world away, comes a message. At the first
syllable, the wireless instrument leaps to answer its mate. With the
universe between them, those two are bound together, inextricably,
eternally bound. One may fancy that a disorder in one might cause
vague unrest in the other. In like manner, Evelina's obsession had
preyed upon Anthony Dexter for twenty-five years. Now, the line was at
work again and there was an unceasing flow of communication.

Perhaps, if he had the strength, he might learn to ignore the phantom
as he had ignored memory. Eventually, he might be able to put aside
the eternal presence as he had put aside his own cowardice. There was
indefinite comfort in the thought.

Having preached the gospel of work for so long, he began to apply it to
himself. Work was undoubtedly what he needed--the one thing which
could set him right again. After a little, he could make the rounds
with Ralph, and dwell constantly in the boy's sunny presence. In the
meantime, there was his paper, for the completion of which one more
experiment was absolutely essential.

He stirred uneasily in his chair. He wished that Ralph had not been so
womanish, or else that he had more diplomatically concealed his own
opinions, to which, indeed, Ralph had admitted his right. Condemnation
from Ralph was the one thing he could not bear, but, after all, was it
needful that Ralph should know?

The experiment would not take long, as he wished to satisfy himself on
but one minor point. It could be done, easily, while Ralph was out
upon his daily round. Behind the lilac bushes there was yet room for
one more tiny grave.

One more experiment, and then, in deference to Ralph's foolish,
effeminate sentiments, he would give it up. One more heart in action,
the conclusion of his brilliant paper, and then--why, he would be
willing to devote the rest of his life, in company with Ralph, to
curing whooping-cough, measles, and mumps.

The veiled figure still paced restlessly back and forth, now on the
turf and now on the brick walk. He closed his eyes, but he still saw
Evelina and noted the slight difference of sound in her footfalls as
she crossed the walk. He heard the swish of her skirts as she lifted
them when she passed the pool of water--was it possible that his
hearing was becoming more keen? He was sure that he had not heard it
from that distance before.


It was certainly an inviting yard and the gate stood temptingly ajar.
The gravelled highway was rough for a little dog's feet, and Laddie and
the Piper had travelled far. For many a mile, there had been no water,
and in this cool, green yard, there was a small pool. Laddie whined
softly and nosed the gate farther open.

A man sat on the porch, but he was asleep--anyhow, his eyes were
closed. Perhaps he had a dog of his own. At any rate, he could not
object to a tired yellow mongrel quenching his thirst at his pool. The
Piper had gone on without observing that his wayworn companion had
stopped.

Except for a mob of boys who had thrown stones at him and broken his
leg, humans had been kind to Laddie. It had been a human, Piper Tom,
in fact, who had rescued him from the boys and made his leg good again.
Laddie cherished no resentment against the mob, for he had that eternal
forgiveness of blows and neglect which lives in the heart of the
commonest cur.

Opening his eyes, Anthony Dexter noted that a small, rough-coated
yellow dog was drinking eagerly at the pool of water past which Evelina
continually moved. She went by twice while the dog was drinking, but
he took no notice of her. Neither robins nor dogs seemed to fear
Evelina--it was only men, or, to be exact, one man, who had hitherto
feared nothing save self-analysis.

The turf was cool and soft to a little dog's tired feet. Laddie walked
leisurely toward the shrubbery, where there was deep and quiet shade.
Under the lilac bush, he lay down to rest, but was presently on his
feet again, curiously exploring the place.

He sniffed carefully at the ground behind the lilac bushes, and the
wiry hair on his back bristled. There was something uncanny about it,
and a guarding instinct warned him away. But what was this that lay on
the ground, so soaked with rains that, in the shade, it had not yet
dried? Laddie dragged it out into the sunlight to see.

It was small and square and soft on the outside, yet hard within.
Except for the soft, damp outer covering, it might have been the block
of pine with which Piper Tom and he would play by the hour. The Piper
would throw the block of wood far from him, sometimes even into the
water, and Laddie would race after it, barking gaily. When he brought
it back, he was rewarded with a pat on the head, or, sometimes, a bone.
Always, there would be friendly talk. Perhaps the man on the porch had
thrown this, and was waiting for him to bring it back.

Laddie took the mysterious thing carefully in his strong jaws, and
trotted exultantly up to the porch, wagging his stub of a tail.
Strangely enough, just at the steps, the thing opened, and something
small and cold and snake-like slipped out. The man could scarcely have
seen the necklace of discoloured pearls before, with an oath, he rose
to his feet, and, firmly holding Laddie under his arm, strode into the
house, entering at the side door.

The Piper had reached home before he missed his dog. He waited a
little, then called, but there was no answer. It was not like Laddie
to stray, for he was usually close at his master's heels.

"Poor little man," said the Piper to himself, "I'm thinking we went too
far."

He retraced his steps over the dusty road, searching the ground. He
discovered that Laddie's tracks ended in the road near Doctor Dexter's
house, and turned toward the gate. Tales of mysterious horrors,
vaguely hinted at, came back to him now with ominous force. He
searched the yard carefully, looking in every nook and corner, then a
cry of anguish reached his ears.

Great beads of sweat stood out upon Piper Tom's forehead, as he burst
in at the laboratory door. On a narrow table, tightly strapped down,
lay Laddie, fully conscious, his faithful heart laid bare. The odour
of anesthetics was so faint as to be scarcely noticeable. At the dog's
side stood Doctor Dexter, in a blood-stained linen coat, with a pad of
paper and a short pencil in his white, firm hands. He was taking notes.

With infinite appeal in his agonised eyes, Laddie recognised his
master, who at last had come too late. Piper Tom seized the knife from
the table, and, with a quick, clean stroke, ended the torture. Doctor
Dexter looked up, his mask-like face wearing an expression of insolent
inquiry.

"Man," cried the Piper, his voice shaking, "have you never been loved
by a dog?"

The silence was tense, but Doctor Dexter had taken out his watch, and
was timing the spasmodic pulsations of the heart he had been so
carefully studying.

"Aye," said the Piper, passionately, "watch it till the last--you
cannot hurt him now. 'T is the truest heart in all the world save a
woman's, and you do well to study it, having no heart of your own. A
poor beast you are, if a dog has never loved you. Take your pencil and
write down on the bit of paper you have there that you've seen the
heart of a dog. Write down that you've seen the heart of one who left
his own kind to be with you, to fight for you, even against them.
Write down that 't is a good honest heart with red blood in it, that
never once failed and never could fail.

"When a man's mother casts him off, when his wife forsakes him, when
his love betrays him, his dog stays true. When he's poor and his
friends pass him by on the other side of the street, looking the other
way, his dog fares with him, ready to starve with him for very love of
him. 'T is a man and his dog, I'm thinking, against the whole world.

"This little lad here was only a yellow mongrel, there was no fine
blood in him; he couldn't bring in the birds nor swim after the ducks
men kill to amuse themselves. He was worth no high price to
anybody--nobody wanted him but me. When I took him away from the boys
who were hurting him, and set his poor broken leg as best I could, he
knew me for his master and claimed me then.

"He's walked with me through four States and never whined. He's gone
without food for days at a time, and never complained. He's been cold
and hungry, and we've slept together, more than once, on the ground in
the snow, with only one blanket between us. He's kept me from freezing
to death with his warm body, he's suffered from thirst the same as I,
and never so much as whimpered. We've been comrades and we've fared
together, as only man and dog may fare.

"When every man's face was set against you, did you never have a dog to
trust you? When there was never a man nor a woman you could call your
friend, did a dog never come to you and lick your hand? When you've
been bent with grief you couldn't stand up under, did a dog never come
to you and put his cold nose on your face? Did a dog never reach out a
friendly paw to tell you that you were not alone--that it was you two
together?

"When you've come home alone late at night, tired to death with the
world and its ways, was there never a dog to greet you with his bark of
welcome? Did a dog never sit where you told him to sit, and guard your
property till you came back, though it might be hours? When you could
trust no man to guard your treasures, could you never trust a dog?
Man, man, the world has fair been cruel if you've never known the love
of a dog!

"I've heard these things of you, but I thought folks were prattling, as
folks will, but dogs never do. I thought they were lying about
you--that such things couldn't be true. They said you were cutting up
dogs to learn more of people, and I'm thinking, if we're so much alike
as that, 't is murder to kill a dog."

"You killed him," said Anthony Dexter, speaking for the first time. "I
didn't."

"Yes," answered the Piper, "I killed him, but 't was to keep him from
being hurt. I'd do the same for a man or a woman, if there was need.
If 't was a child you had tied down here with your blood-stained
straps, cut open to see an innocent heart, your own being black past
all pardon, I'd do the same for the child and all the more quickly if
it was my own. I never had a child--I've never had a woman to love me,
but I've been loved by a dog. I've thought that even yet I might know
the love of a woman, for a man who deserves the love of a dog is worthy
of a woman, and a man who will torture a dog will torture a woman, too.

"Laddie," said the Piper, laying his hand upon the blood-stained body,
"no man ever had a truer comrade, and I'll not insult your kind by
calling this brute a cur. Laddie, it was you and I, and now it's I
alone. Laddie--" here the Piper's voice broke, and, taking up the
knife again, he cut the straps. With the tears raining down his face,
he stumbled out of the laboratory, the mutilated body of his pet in his
arms.


Anthony Dexter looked after him curiously. The mask-like expression of
his face was slightly changed. In a corner of the laboratory, seeming
to shrink from him, stood the phantom black figure, closely veiled.
Out of the echoing stillness came the passionate accusation: "A man who
will torture a dog will torture a woman, too."

He carefully removed the blood stains from the narrow table, and pushed
it back in its place, behind a screen. The straps were cut, and
consequently useless, so he wrapped them up in a newspaper and threw
them into the waste basket. He cleaned his knife with unusual care,
and wiped an ugly stain from his forceps.

Then he took off his linen coat, folded it up, and placed it in the
covered basket which held soiled linen from the laboratory. He washed
his hands and copied the notes he had made, for there was blood upon
the page. He tore the original sheet into fine bits, and put the
pieces into the waste basket. Then he put on his cuffs and his coat,
and went out of the laboratory.

He was dazed, and did not see that his own self-torture had filled him
with primeval lust to torture in return. He only knew that his
brilliant paper must remain forever incomplete, since his services to
science were continually unappreciated and misunderstood. What was one
yellow dog, more or less, in the vast economy of Nature? Was he
lacking in discernment, because, as Piper Tom said, he had never been
loved by a dog?

He sat down in the library to collect himself and observed, with a
curious sense of detachment, that Evelina was walking in the hall
instead of in the library, as she usually did when he sat there.

An hour--or perhaps two--went by, then, unexpectedly, Ralph came home,
having paused a moment outside. He rushed into the library with his
face aglow.

"Look, Dad," he cried, boyishly, holding it at arm's length; "see what
I found on the steps! It's a pearl necklace, with a diamond in the
clasp! Some of the stones are discoloured, but they're good and can be
made right again, I've found it, so it's mine, and I'm going to give it
to the girl I marry!"

Anthony Dexter's pale face suddenly became livid. He staggered over to
Ralph, snatched the necklace out of his hand, and ground the pearls
under his heel. "No," he cried, "a thousand times, no! The pearls are
cursed!"

Then, for the second time, he fainted.




XVIII

Undine

"It's almost as good as new!" cried Araminta, gleefully. She was clad
in a sombre calico Mother Hubbard, of Miss Mehitable's painstaking
manufacture, and hopping back and forth on the bare floor of her room
at Miss Evelina's.

"Yes," answered Doctor Ralph, "I think it's quite as good as new." He
was filled with professional pride at the satisfactory outcome of his
first case, and yet was not at all pleased with the idea of Araminta's
returning to Miss Mehitable's, as, perforce, she soon must do.

"Don't walk any more just now," he said "Come here and sit down. I
want to talk to you."

Araminta obeyed him unquestioningly. He settled her comfortably in the
haircloth easy-chair and drew his own chair closer. There was a pause,
then she looked up at him, smiling with childish wistfulness.

"Are you sorry it's well?" he asked.

"I--I think I am," she answered, shyly, the deep crimson dyeing her
face.

"I can't see you any more, you know," said Ralph, watching her intently.

The sweet face saddened in an instant and Araminta tapped her foot
restlessly upon the floor. "Perhaps," she returned, slowly, "Aunt
Hitty will be taken sick. Oh, I do hope she will!"

"You miserable little sinner," laughed Ralph, "do you suppose for a
moment that Aunt Hitty would send for me if she were ill? Why, I
believe she'd die first!"

"Maybe Mr. Thorpe might be taken sick," suggested Araminta, hopefully.
"He's old, and sometimes I think he isn't very strong."

"He'd insist on having my father. You know they're old friends."

"Mr. Thorpe is old and your father is old," corrected Araminta,
precisely, "but they haven't been friends long. Aunt Hitty says you
must always say what you mean."

"That is what I meant. Each is old and both are friends. See?"

"It must be nice to be men," sighed Araminta, "and have friends. I've
never had anybody but Aunt Hitty--and you," she added, in a lower tone,

"'No money, no friends, nothing but relatives,'" quoted Ralph,
cynically. "It's hard lines, little maid--hard lines." He walked back
and forth across the small room, his hands clasped behind his back--a
favourite attitude, Araminta had noted, during the month of her illness.

He pictured his probable reception should he venture to call upon her.
Personally, as it was, he stood none too high in the favour of the
dragon, as he was wont to term Miss Mehitable in his unflattering
thoughts. Moreover, he was a man, which counted heavily against him.
Since he had taken up his father's practice, he had heard a great deal
about Miss Mehitable's view of marriage, and her determination to
shield Araminta from such an unhappy fate.

And Araminta had not been intended, by Dame Nature, for such shielding.
Every line of her body, rounding into womanhood, defied Aunt Hitty's
well-meant efforts. The soft curve of her cheek, the dimples that
lurked unsuspected in the comers of her mouth, the grave, sweet
eyes--all these marked Araminta for love. She had, too, a wistful,
appealing childishness.

"Did you like the story book?" asked Ralph.

"Oh, so much!"

"I thought you would. What part of it did you like best?"

"It was all lovely," replied Araminta, thoughtfully, "but I think the
best part of it was when she went back to him after she had made him go
away. It made him so glad to know that they were to talk together
again."

Ralph looked keenly at Araminta, the love of man and woman was so
evidently outside her ken. The sleeping princess in the tower had been
no more set apart. But, as he remembered; the sleeping princess had
been wakened by a kiss--when the right man came.

A lump came into his throat and he swallowed hard. Blindly, he went
over to her chair. The girl's flower-like face was lifted
questioningly to his. He bent over and kissed her, full upon the lips.

Araminta shrank from him a little, and the colour surged into her face,
but her eyes, still trustful, still tender, never wavered from his.

"I suppose I'm a brute," Ralph said, huskily, "but God knows I haven't
meant to be."

Araminta smiled--a sweet, uncomprehending smile. Ralph possessed
himself of her hand. It was warm and steady--his own was cold and
tremulous.

"Child," he said, "did any one ever kiss you before?"

"No," replied Araminta; "only Aunt Hitty. It was when I was a baby and
she thought I was lost. She kissed me--here." Araminta pointed to her
soft cheek. "Did you kiss me because I was well?"

Ralph shook his head despairingly. "The man in the book kissed the
lady," went on Araminta, happily, "because he was so glad they were to
talk together again, but we--why, I shall never see you any more," she
concluded, sadly.

His fingers tightened upon hers. "Yes," he said, in a strange voice,
"we shall see each other again."

"They both seem very well," sighed Araminta, referring to Aunt Hitty
and Mr. Thorpe, "and even if I fell off of a ladder again, it might not
hurt me at all. I have fallen from lots of places and only got black
and blue. I never broke before."

"Listen, child," said Ralph. "Would you rather live with Aunt Hitty,
or with me?"

"Why, Doctor Ralph! Of course I'd rather live with you, but Aunt Hitty
would never let me!"

"We're not talking about Aunt Hitty now. Is there anyone in the world
whom you like better than you do me?"

"No," said Araminta, softly, her eyes shining. "How could there be?"

"Do you love me, Araminta?"

"Yes," she answered, sweetly, "of course I do! You've been so good to
me!"

The tone made the words meaningless. "Child," said Ralph, "you break
my heart."

He walked back and forth again, restlessly, and Araminta watched him,
vaguely troubled. What in the world had she done?

Meanwhile, he was meditating. He could not bear to have her go back to
her prison, even for a little while. Had he found her only to lose
her, because she had no soul?

Presently he came back to her and stood by her chair. "Listen, dear,"
he said, tenderly. "You told me there was no one in the world for whom
you cared more than you care for me. You said you loved me, and I love
you--God knows I do. If you'll trust me, Araminta, you'll never be
sorry, never for one single minute as long as you live. Would you like
to live with me in a little house with roses climbing over it, just us
two alone?"

"Yes," returned Araminta, dreamily, "and I could keep the little cat."

"You can have a million cats, if you like, but all I want is you. Just
you, sweetheart, to love me, with all the love you can give me. Will
you come?"

"Oh," cried Araminta, "if Aunt Hitty would only let me, but she never
would!"

"We won't ask her," returned Ralph. "We'll go away to-night, and be
married."

At the word, Araminta started out of her chair. Her face was white and
her eyes wide with fear. "I couldn't," she said, with difficulty.
"You shouldn't ask me to do what you know is wrong. Just because my
mother was married, because she was wicked--you must not think that I
would be wicked, too."

Hot words were struggling for utterance, but Ralph choked them back.
The fog was thick before him and he saw Araminta as through a heavy
veil. "Undine," he said, moistening his parched lips, "some day you
will find your soul. And when you do, come to me. I shall be waiting."

He went out of the room unsteadily, and closed the door. He stood at
the head of the stairs for a long time before he went down. Apparently
there was no one in the house. He went into the parlour and sat down,
wiping the cold sweat from his forehead, and trying to regain his
self-control.

He saw, clearly, that Araminta was not in the least to blame; that
almost ever since her birth, she had been under the thumb of a
domineering woman who persistently inculcated her own warped ideas.
Since her earliest childhood, Araminta had been taught that marriage
was wrong--that her own mother was wicked, because she had been
married. And of the love between man and woman, the child knew
absolutely nothing.

"Good God!" muttered Ralph. "My little girl, oh, my little girl!"
Man-like, he loved her more than ever because she had denied him;
man-like, he wanted her now as he had never wanted her before. Through
the weeks that he had seen her every day, he had grown to feel his need
of her, to hunger for the sweetness of her absolute dependence upon
him. Yet, until now, he had not guessed how deeply he cared, nor
guessed that such caring was possible.

He sat there for the better part of an hour, slowly regaining command
of himself. Miss Evelina came through the hall and paused just outside
the door, feeling intuitively that some one was in the house. She drew
down her veil and went in.

"I thought you had gone," she said. "Did you wish to see me?"

"No," returned Ralph, wearily; "not especially."

She sat down opposite him silently. All her movements were quiet, for
she had never been the noisy sort of woman. There was something
soothing in the veiled presence.

"I hope I'm not intruding," ventured Ralph, at length. "I'll go,
presently. I've just had a--well, a blow. That little saint upstairs
has been taught that marriage is wicked."

"I know," returned Miss Evelina, instantly comprehending. "Mehitable
has very strange ideas. I'm sorry," she added, in a tone she might
have used in speaking to Anthony Dexter, years before.

Her sympathy touched the right chord. It was not obtrusive, it had no
hint of pity; it was simply that one who had been hurt fully understood
the hurt of another. Ralph felt a mysterious kinship.

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