Book: A Spinner in the Sun

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




He was thoroughly self-satisfied, as well he might be, for the entire
countryside admitted his skill, and even in the operating rooms of the
hospitals in the city not far distant. Doctor Dexter's name was well
known. He had thought seriously, at times, of seeking a wider field,
but he liked the country and the open air, and his practice would give
Ralph the opportunity he needed. At his father's death, the young
physician would fail heir to a practice which had taken many years of
hard work to build up.

At the thought of Ralph, the man's face softened a trifle and his keen
eyes became a little less keen. The boy's picture was before him upon
his chiffonier. Ralph was twenty-three now and would finish in a few
weeks at a famous medical school--Doctor Dexter's own alma mater. He
had not been at home since he entered the school, having undertaken to
do in three years the work which usually required four.

He wrote frequently, however, and Doctor Dexter invariably went to the
post-office himself on the days Ralph's letters were expected. He had
the entire correspondence on file and whiled away many a lonely evening
by reading and re-reading the breezy epistles. The last one was in his
pocket now.

"To think, Father," Ralph had written, "in three weeks more or less, I
shall be at home with my sheepskin and a fine new shingle with 'Dr.
Ralph Dexter' painted on it, all ready to hang up on the front of the
house beside yours. I'll be glad to get out of the grind for a while,
I can tell you that. I've worked as His Satanic Majesty undoubtedly
does when he receives word that a fresh batch of Mormons has hit the
trail for the good-intentions pavement. _Decensus facilis Averni_.
That's about all the Latin I've got left.

"At first, I suppose, there won't be much for me to do. I'll have to
win the confidence of the community by listening to the old ladies'
symptoms three or four hours a day, regularly. Finally, they'll let me
vaccinate the kids and the rest will be pitifully easy. Kids always
like me, for some occult reason, and if the children cry for me, it
won't be long till I've got your whole blooming job away from you.
Never mind, though, dad--I'll be generous and whack up, as you've
always done with me."

Remembering the boyishness of it, Anthony Dexter smiled a little and
took another satisfying look at the pictured face before him. Ralph's
eyes were as his father's had been--frank and friendly and clear, with
no hint of suspicion. His chin was firm and his mouth determined, but
the corners of it turned up decidedly, and the upper lip was short.
The unprejudiced observer would have seen merely an honest,
intelligent, manly young fellow, who looked as if he might be good
company. Anthony Dexter saw all this--and a great deal more.

It was his pride that he was unemotional. By rigid self-discipline, he
had wholly mastered himself. His detachment from his kind was at first
spasmodic, then exceptionally complete. Excepting Ralph, his relation
to the world was that of an unimpassioned critic. He was so sure of
his own ground that he thought he considered Ralph impersonally, also.

Over a nature which, at the beginning, was warmly human, Doctor Dexter
had laid this glacial mask. He did what he had to do with neatness and
dispatch. If an operation was necessary, he said so at once, not
troubling himself to approach the subject gradually. If there was
doubt as to the outcome, he would cheerfully advise the patient to make
a will first, but there was seldom doubt, for those white, blunt
fingers were very sure. He believed in the clean-cut, sudden stroke,
and conducted his life upon that basis.

Without so much as the quiver of an eyelash, Anthony Dexter could tell
a man that within an hour his wife would be dead. He could predict the
death of a child, almost to the minute, without a change in his
mask-like expression, and feel a faint throb of professional pride when
his prediction was precisely fulfilled. The people feared him,
respected him, and admired his skill, but no one loved him except his
son.

Among all his acquaintances, there was none who called him friend
except Austin Thorpe, the old minister who had but lately come to town.
This, in itself, was no distinction, for Thorpe was the friend of every
man, woman, child, and animal in the village. No two men could have
been more unlike, but friendship, like love, is often a matter of
chemical affinity, wherein opposites rush together in obedience to a
hidden law.

The broadly human creed of the minister included every living thing,
and the man himself interested Doctor Dexter in much the same way that
a new slide for his microscope might interest him. They exchanged
visits frequently when the duties of both permitted, and the Doctor
reflected that, when Ralph came, Thorpe would be lonely.

The Dexter house was an old one but it had been kept in good repair.
From time to time, wings had been added to the original structure,
until now it sprawled lazily in every direction. One wing, at the
right of the house, contained the Doctor's medical library, office,
reception room, and laboratory. Doors were arranged in metropolitan
fashion, so that patients might go out of the office without meeting
any one. The laboratory, at the back of the wing, was well fitted with
modern appliances for original research, and had, too, its own outside
door.

When Ralph came home, the other wing, at the left of the house, was to
be arranged in like manner for him if he so desired. Doctor Dexter had
some rough drawings under consideration, but wanted Ralph to order the
plans in accordance with his own ideas.

The breakfast bell rang again, and Doctor Dexter went downstairs. The
servant met him in the hall. "Breakfast is waiting, sir," she said.

"All right," returned the Doctor, absently. "I'll be there in a
moment."

He opened the door for a breath of fresh air, and immediately perceived
the small, purple velvet box at his feet. He picked it up,
wonderingly, and opened it.

Inside were the discoloured pearls on their bed of yellowed satin, and
the ivory-tinted slip of paper on which he had written, so long ago, in
his clear, boyish hand: "First, from the depths of the sea, and then
from the depths of my love."

Being unemotional, he experienced nothing at first, save natural
surprise. He stood there, staring into vacancy, idly fingering the
pearls. By some evil magic of the moment, the hour seemed set back a
full quarter of a century. As though it were yesterday, he saw Evelina
before him.

She had been a girl of extraordinary beauty and charm. He had
travelled far and seen many, but there had been none like Evelina. How
he had loved her, in those dead yesterdays, and how she had loved him!
The poignant sweetness of it came back, changed by some fatal alchemy
into bitterness.

Anthony Dexter had seen enough of the world to recognise cowardice when
he saw it, even in himself. His books had taught him that the mind
could hold but one thought at a time, and, persistently, he had
displaced the unpleasant ones which constantly strove for the right of
possession.

Hard work and new love and daily wearying of the body to the point of
exhaustion had banished those phantoms of earlier years, save in his
dreams. At night, the soul claims its own--its right to suffer for its
secret sins, its shirking, its betrayals.

It is not pleasant for a man to be branded, in his own consciousness, a
coward. Refusal to admit it by day does not change the hour of the
night when life is at its lowest ebb, and, sleepless, man faces himself
as he is.

The necklace slipped snakily over his hand--one of those white, firm
hands which could guide the knife so well--and Anthony Dexter
shuddered. He flung the box far from him into the shrubbery, went back
into the house, and slammed the door.

He sat down at the table, but could not eat. The Past had come from
its grave, veiled, like the ghost in the garden that he had seen
yesterday.

It was not an hallucination, then. Only one person in the world could
have laid those discoloured pearls at his door in the dead of night.
The black figure in the garden, with the chiffon fluttering about its
head, was Evelina Grey--or what was left of her.

"Why?" he questioned uneasily of himself. "Why?" He had repeatedly
told himself that any other man, in his position, would do as he had
done, yet it was as though some one had slipped a stiletto under his
armour and found a vulnerable spot.

Before his mental vision hovered two women. One was a girl of twenty,
laughing, exquisitely lovely. The other was a bent and broken woman in
black, whose veil concealed the dreadful hideousness of her face.

"Pshaw!" grumbled Doctor Dexter, aloud. "I've overworked, that's all."

He determined to vanquish the spectre that had reared itself before
him, not perceiving that Remorse incarnate, in the shape of Evelina,
had come back to haunt him until his dying day.




V

Araminta

"Araminta," said Miss Mehitable, "go and get your sewing and do your
stent."

"Yes, Aunt Hitty," answered the girl, obediently.

Each year, Araminta made a new patchwork quilt. Seven were neatly
folded and put away in an old trunk in the attic. The eighth was
progressing well, but the young seamstress was becoming sated with
quilts. She had never been to school, but Miss Mehitable had taught
her all she knew. Unkind critics might have intimated that Araminta
had not been taught much, but she could sew nicely, keep house
neatly, and write a stilted letter in a queer, old-fashioned hand
almost exactly like Miss Mehitable's.

That valiant dame saw no practical use in further knowledge. She was
concerned with no books except the Bible and the ancient ledger in
which, with painstaking exactness, she kept her household accounts.
She deemed it wise, moreover, that Araminta should not know too much.

From a drawer in the high, black-walnut bureau in the upper hall,
Araminta drew forth an assortment of red, white, and blue cotton
squares and diamonds. This was to be a "patriotic" quilt, made after
a famous old pattern which Miss Hitty had selfishly refused to give
to any one else, though she had often been asked for it by
contemporary ladies of similar interests.

The younger generation was inclined to scout at quilt-making, and
needlework heresy was rampant in the neighbourhood. Tatting,
crocheting, and knitting were on the wane. An "advanced" woman who
had once spent a Summer in the village had spread abroad the delights
of Battenberg and raised embroidery. At all of these, Miss Hitty
sniffed contemptuously.

"Quilt makin' was good enough for their mas and their grandmas," she
said scornfully, "and I reckon it's good enough for anybody else.
I've no patience with such things."

Araminta knew that. She had never forgotten the vial of wrath which
broke upon her luckless head the day she had timorously suggested
making lace as a pleasing change from unending quilts.

She sat now, in a low rocker by the window, with one foot upon a
wobbly stool. A marvellous cover, of Aunt Hitty's making, which
dated back to her frivolous and girlish days, was underneath. Nobody
ever saw it, however, and the gaudy woollen roses blushed unseen. A
white linen cover, severely plain, was put upon the footstool every
Wednesday and every Saturday, year in and year out.

Unlike most good housewives, Miss Mehitable used her parlour every
day in the week. She was obliged to, in fact, for it was the only
room in her house, except Mr. Thorpe's, which commanded an
unobstructed view of the crossroads. A cover of brown denim
protected the carpet, and the chairs were shrouded in shapeless
habiliments of cambric and calico. For the rest, however, the room
was mildly cheerful, and had a habitable look which was distinctly
uncommon in village parlours.

There was a fireplace, which was dusted and scrubbed at intervals,
but never, under any circumstances, profaned by a fire. It was
curtained by a gay remnant of figured plush, however, so nobody
missed the fire. White and gold china vases stood on the mantel, and
a little china dog, who would never have dared to bark had he been
alive, so chaste and humble of countenance was he, sat forever
between the two vases, keeping faithful guard over Miss Mehitable's
treasures.

The silver coffin plates of the Smiths, matted with black, and deeply
framed, occupied the place of honour over the mantel. On the
marble-topped table in the exact centre of the room was a basket of
wax flowers and fruit, covered by a bell-shaped glass shade. Miss
Hitty's album and her Bible were placed near it with mathematical
precision. On the opposite wall was a hair wreath, made from the
shorn locks of departed Smiths by Miss Hitty's mother. The proud
possessor felt a covert reproach in the fact that she herself was
unable to make hair wreaths. It was a talent for which she had great
admiration.

Araminta rocked back and forth in her low chair by the window. She
hummed a bit of "Sweet Bye and Bye" to herself, for hymns were the
only songs she knew. She could play some of them, with one hand, on
the melodeon in the corner, but she dared not touch the yellow keys
of the venerated instrument except when Miss Hitty was out.

The sunlight shone lovingly on Araminta's brown hair, tightly combed
back, braided, and pinned up, but rippling riotously, none the less.
Her deep, thoughtful eyes were grey and her nose turned up
coquettishly. To a guardian of greater penetration, Araminta's mouth
would have given deep concern. It was a demure, rosy mouth, warning
and tantalising by turns. Mischievous little dimples lurked in the
corners of it, and even Aunt Hitty was not proof against the magic of
Araminta's smile. The girl's face had the creamy softness of a white
rose petal, but her cheeks bloomed with the flush of health and she
had a most disconcerting trick of blushing. With Spartan
thoroughness, Miss Mehitable constantly strove to cure Araminta of
this distressing fault, but as yet she had not succeeded.

The pretty child had grown into an exquisitely lovely woman, to her
stern guardian's secret uneasiness. "It's goin' to be harder to keep
Minty right than 't would be if she was plain," mused Miss Hitty,
"but t guess I'll be given strength to do it. I've done well by her
so far."

"In the Sweet Bye and Bye," sang Araminta, in a piping, girlish
soprano, "we shall meet on that beautiful shore."

"Maybe we shall and maybe we sha'n't," said Miss Hitty, grimly.
"Some folks 'll never see the beautiful shore. They'll go to the bad
place."

Araminta lifted her great, grey, questioning eyes. "Why?" she asked,
simply.

"Because they've been bad," answered Miss Hitty, defiantly.

"But if they didn't know any better?" queried Araminta, threading her
needle. "Would they go to the bad place just because they didn't
know?"

Miss Mehitable squirmed in her chair, for never before had Araminta
spoken thus. "There's no excuse for their not knowin'," she said,
sharply.

"Perhaps not," sighed Araminta, "but it seems dreadful to think of
people being burned up just for ignorance. Do you think I'll be
burned up, Aunt Hitty?" she continued, anxiously. "There's so many
things I don't know!"

Miss Mehitable set herself firmly to her task. "Araminta Lee," she
said, harshly, "don't get to bothering about what you don't know.
That's the sure way to perdition. I've told you time and time again
what's right for you to believe and what's right for you to do. You
walk in that path and turn neither to the right nor the left, and you
won't have no trouble--here or anywheres else."

"Yes, Aunt Hitty," said the girl, dutifully. "It must be awful to be
burned."

Miss Mehitable looked about her furtively, then drew her chair closer
to Araminta's. "That brings to my mind something I wanted to speak
to you about, and I don't know but what this is as good a chance as
any. You know where I told you to go the other day with the tray,
and to set it down at the back door, and rap, and run?"

"Yes." Araminta's eyes were wide open now. She had wondered much at
her mysterious errand, but had not dared to ask questions.

"Well," continued Aunt Hitty, after an aggravating pause, "the woman
that lives in that house has been burnt."

Araminta gasped. "Oh, Aunt Hitty, was she bad? What did she do and
how did she get burned before she was dead?"

Miss Mehitable brushed aside the question as though it were an
annoying fly. "I don't want it talked of," she said, severely.
"Evelina Grey was a friend of mine, and she is yet. If there's
anything on earth I despise, it's a gossip. People who haven't
anything better to do than to go around prying into other folks's
affairs are better off dead, I take it. My mother never permitted me
to gossip, and I've held true to her teachin'." Aunt Hitty smoothed
her skirts with superior virtue and tied a knot in her thread.

"How did she get burned?" asked Araminta, eagerly.

"Gossip," said Miss Mehitable, sententiously, "does a lot of harm and
makes a lot of folks miserable. It's a good thing to keep away from,
and if I ever hear of your gossiping about anybody, I'll shut you up
in your room for two weeks and keep you on bread and water."

Araminta trembled. "What is gossiping, Aunt Hitty?" she asked in a
timid, awe-struck tone.

"Talking about folks," explained Miss Hitty. "Tellin' things about
'em they wouldn't tell themselves."

It occurred to Araminta that much of the conversation at the
crossroads might appropriately be classed under that head, but, of
course, Aunt Hitty knew what she was talking about. She remembered
the last quilting Aunt Hitty had given, when the Ladies' Aid Society
had been invited, en masse, to finish off the quilt Araminta's
rebellious fingers had just completed. One of the ladies had been
obliged to leave earlier than the rest, and----

"I don't believe," thought Araminta, "that Mrs. Gardner would have
told how her son ran away from home, nor that she didn't dust her bed
slats except at house-cleaning time, nor that they ate things other
people would give to the pigs."

"I expect there'll be a lot of questions asked about Evelina,"
observed Miss Mehitable, breaking in rudely upon Araminta's train of
thought, "as soon 's folks finds out she's come back to live here,
and that she has to wear a veil all the time, even when she doesn't
wear her hat. What I'm telling you for is to show you what happens
to women that haven't sense enough to keep away from men. If Evelina
'd kept away from Doctor Dexter, she wouldn't have got burnt."

"Did Doctor Dexter burn her?" asked Araminta, breathlessly. "I
thought it was God."

At the psychological moment, Doctor Dexter drove by, bowing to Miss
Mehitable as he passed. Araminta had observed that this particular
event always flustered her aunt.

"Maybe, it was God and maybe it was Doctor Dexter," answered Miss
Mehitable, quickly. "That's something there don't nobody know except
Evelina and Doctor Dexter, and it's not for me to ask either one of
'em, though I don't doubt some of the sewin' society 'll make an
errand to Evelina's to find out. I've got to keep 'em off 'n her, if
I can, and that's a big job for one woman to tackle.

"Anyhow, she got burnt and got burnt awful, and it was at his house
that it happened. It was shameless, the way Evelina carried on.
Why, if you'll believe me, she'd actually go to his house when there
wa'n't no need of it--nobody sick, nor no medicine to be bought, nor
anything. Some said they was goin' to be married."

The scorn which Miss Mehitable managed to throw into the word
"married" indicated that the state was the crowning ignominy of the
race. The girl's cheek flamed into crimson, for her own mother had
been married, and everybody knew it. Sometimes the deep disgrace
seemed almost too much for Araminta to endure.

"That's what comes of it," explained Miss Hitty, patiently, as a
teacher might point to a demonstration clearly made out on a
blackboard for an eager class. "If she'd stayed at home as a girl
should stay, and hadn't gone to Doctor Dexter's, she wouldn't have
got burnt. Anybody can see that.

"There was so much goin' on at the time that I sorter lost track of
everything, otherwise I'd have known more about it, but I guess I
know as much as anybody ever knew. Evelina was to Doctor
Dexter's--shameless hussy that she was--and she got burnt. She was
there all the afternoon and they took her to the hospital in the city
on the night train and she stayed there until she was well, but she
never came back here until just now. Her mother went with her to
take care of her and before Evelina came out of the hospital, her
mother keeled over and died. Sarah Grey always had a weak heart and
a weak head to match it. If she hadn't have had, she'd have brought
up Evelina different,

"Neither of 'em was ever in the house again. Neither one ever came
back, even for their clothes. They had plenty of money, then, and
they just bought new ones. When the word come that Evelina was
burnt, Sarah Grey just put on her hat and locked her doors and run up
to Doctor Dexter's. Nobody ever heard from them again until Jim
Gardner's second cousin on his father's side sent a paper with Sarah
Grey's obituary in it. And now, after twenty-five years, Evelina's
come back.

"The poor soul's just sittin' there, in all the dust and cobwebs.
When I get time, I aim to go over there and clean up the house for
her--'t ain't decent for a body to live like that. I'll take you
with me, to help scrub, and what I'm telling you all this for is so
's you won't ask any questions, nor act as if you thought it was
queer for a woman to wear a white veil all the time. You'll have to
act as if nothing was out of the way at all, and not look at her any
more than you can help. Just pretend it's the style to wear a veil
pinned to your hair all the time, and you've been wearin' one right
along and have forgot and left it to home. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Aunt Hitty."

"And when people come here to find out about it, you're not to say
anything. Leave it all to me. 'T ain't necessary for you to lie,
but you can keep your mouth shut. And I hope you see now what it
means to a woman to walk straight on her own path that the Lord has
laid out for her, and to let men alone. They're pizen, every one of
'em."

Nun-like, Araminta sat in her chair and sewed steadily at her dainty
seam, but, none the less, she was deeply stirred with pity for women
who so forgot themselves--who had not Aunt Hitty's superior wisdom.
At the end of the prayer which Miss Mehitable had taught the child,
and which the woman still repeated in her nightly devotions, was this
eloquent passage:

"And, Oh Lord, keep me from the contamination of marriage. For Thy
sake. Amen."

"Araminta," said Aunt Hitty, severely, "cover up your foot!"
Modestly, Araminta drew down her skirt. One foot was on the
immaculate footstool and her ankle was exposed to view--a lovely
ankle, in spite of the broad-soled, common-sense shoes which she
always wore.

"How often have I told you to keep your ankles covered ?" demanded
Miss Mehitable. "Suppose the minister had come in suddenly!
Suppose--upon my word! Speakin' of angels--if there ain't the
minister now!"

The Reverend Austin Thorpe came slowly up the brick-bordered path,
his head bowed in thought. He was painfully near-sighted, but he
refused to wear glasses. On the doorstep he paused and wiped his
feet upon the corn-husk mat until even Miss Mehitable, beaming at him
through the window, thought he was overdoing it. Unconsciously, she
took credit to herself for the minister's neatness.

Stepping carefully, lest he profane the hall carpet by wandering off
the rug, the minister entered the parlour, having first taken off his
coat and hat and hung them upon their appointed hooks in the hall.
It was cold, and the cheery warmth of the room beckoned him in. He
did not know that he tried Miss Hitty by trespassing, so to speak,
upon her preserves. She would have been better pleased if he
remained in his room when he was not at the table or out, but, to do
him justice, the reverend gentleman did not often offend her thus.

Araminta, blushing, took her foot from the footstool and pulled
feverishly at her skirts. As Mr. Thorpe entered the room, she did
not look up, but kept her eyes modestly upon her work.

"There ain't no need to tear out the gathers," Miss Hitty said, in a
warning undertone, referring to Aramlnta's skirts. "Why, Mr. Thorpe!
How you surprised me! Come in and set a spell," she added,
grudgingly.

Steering well away from the centre-table with its highly prized
ornament, Thorpe gained the chair in which, if he did not lean
against the tidy, he was permitted to sit. He held himself bolt
upright and warmed his hands at the stove. "It is good to be out,"
he said, cheerfully, "and good to come in again. A day like this
makes one appreciate the blessing of a home."

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