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.
CHAPTER XII. ACHIEVEMENTS.
There are some folk born to beauty,
And some to plenteous gold,
Some who are proud of being young,
Some proud of being old.
Some who are glad of happy love,
Enduring, deep and true,
And some who thoroughly enjoy
The little things they do.
Upon all this Grandma Pettigrew cast an observant eye, and meditated sagely thereupon. Coming to a decision, she first took a course of reading in some of Dr. Bellair's big books, and then developed a series of perplexing symptoms, not of a too poignant or perilous nature, that took her to Dr. Hale's office frequently.
"You haven't repudiated Dr. Bellair, have you?" he asked her.
"I have never consulted Jane Bellair as a physician," she replied, "though I esteem her much as a friend."
The old lady's company was always welcome to him; he liked her penetrating eye, her close-lipped, sharp remarks, and appreciated the real kindness of her heart.
If he had known how closely she was peering into the locked recesses of his own, and how much she saw there, he would perhaps have avoided her as he did Vivian, and if he had known further that this ingenious old lady, pursuing long genealogical discussions with him, had finally unearthed a mutual old-time friend, and had forthwith started a correspondence with that friend, based on this common acquaintance in Carston, he might have left that city.
The old-time friend, baited by Mrs. Pettigrew's innocent comment on Dr. Hale's persistence in single blessedness, poured forth what she knew of the cause with no more embellishment than time is sure to give.
"I know why he won't marry," wrote she. "He had reason good to begin with, but I never dreamed he'd be obstinate enough to keep it up sixteen years. When he was a boy in college here I knew him well—he was a splendid fellow, one of the very finest. But he fell desperately in love with that beautiful Mrs. James—don't you remember about her? She married a St. Cloud later, and he left her, I think. She was as lovely as a cameo—and as hard and flat. That woman was the saintliest thing that ever breathed. She wouldn't live with her husband because he had done something wrong; she wouldn't get a divorce, nor let him, because that was wicked—and she always had a string of boys round her, and talked about the moral influence she had on them.
"Young Hale worshipped her—simply worshipped her—and she let him. She let them all. She had that much that was god-like about her—she loved incense. You need not ask for particulars. She was far too 'particular' for that. But one light-headed chap went and drowned himself—that was all hushed up, of course, but some of us felt pretty sure why. He was a half-brother to Dick Hale, and Dick was awfully fond of him. Then he turned hard and hateful all at once—used to talk horrid about women. He kept straight enough—that's easy for a mysogynist, and studying medicine didn't help him any—doctors and ministers know too much about women. So there you are. But I'm astonished to hear he's never gotten over it; he always was obstinate—it's his only fault. They say he swore never to marry—if he did, that accounts. Do give my regards if you see him again."
Mrs. Pettigrew considered long and deeply over this information, as she slowly produced a jersey striped with Roman vividness. It was noticeable in this new life in Carston that Mrs. Pettigrew's knitted jackets had grown steadily brighter in hue from month to month. Whereas, in Bainville, purple and brown were the high lights, and black, slate and navy blue the main colors; now her worsteds were as a painter's palette, and the result not only cheered, but bade fair to inebriate.
"A pig-headed man," she said to herself, as her needle prodded steadily in and out; "a pig-headed man, with a pig-headedness of sixteen years' standing. His hair must 'a turned gray from the strain of it. And there's Vivian, biddin' fair to be an old maid after all. What on earth!" She appeared to have forgotten that marriages are made in heaven, or to disregard that saying. "The Lord helps those that help themselves," was one of her favorite mottoes. "And much more those that help other people!" she used to