The Foolish Virgin
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Thomas Dixon >> The Foolish Virgin
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CHAPTER XXIII
THE DOCTOR
Mary stood overwhelmed by the tragedy she had
witnessed. For the time her brain refused to record
sensations. She had seen too much, felt too much in
the past eight hours. Soul and body were numb.
The first impressions of returning consciousness
were fixed on Nance. She had risen suddenly from the
floor and smoothed the hair back from Jim's forehead
with tender touch as if afraid to wake him. She drew
the quilt from the kitchen floor, spread it over the
body, and lifted her eyes to Mary's. It was only too
plain.
Reason had gone.
She tipped close and put her fingers on her lips.
"Sh! We mustn't wake him. He's tired. Let him
sleep. It's my boy. He's come home. We'll fix him a
fine Christmas dinner. I've got a turkey. I'll bake a
cake----" she paused and laughed softly. "I've got
eggs too, fresh laid yesterday. We'll make egg-
nog all day and all night. I ain't had no Christmas
since that devil stole him. We'll have one this time,
won't we?"
The girl's wits were again alert. She must run for
help. A minute to humor the old woman's delusion and
she might return before any harm came to her. Jim had
not moved a muscle. It was plain that he was beyond
help.
"Yes," Mary answered cheerfully. "You fix the
cake--and I'll get the wood to make a fire."
Nance laughed again.
"We'll have the dinner all ready for him when he
wakes, won't we?"
"Yes. I'll be back in a few minutes."
Nance hurried into the kitchen humming an old song
in a faltering voice that sent the cold chills down the
girl's spine.
Mary slipped quietly through the door and ran with
swift, sure foot down the narrow road along which the
machine had picked its way the afternoon before. The
cabin they had passed last could not be more than a
mile.
She made no effort to find the logs for pedestrians
when the road crossed the brook. She plunged straight
through the babbling waters with her shoes, regardless
of skirts.
Panting for breath, she saw the smoke curling from
the cabin chimney a quarter of a mile away.
"Thank God!" she cried. "They're awake!"
She was so glad to have reached her goal, her
strength suddenly gave way and she dropped to a boulder
by the wayside to rest. In two minutes she was up and
running with all her might.
She rushed to the door and knocked.
A mountaineer in shirt-sleeves and stockings
answered with a look of mild wonder.
"For God's sake come and help me. I must have a
doctor quick. We spent the night at Mrs. Owens'.
She's lost her mind completely--a terrible thing has
happened--you'll help me?"
"Cose I will, honey," the mountaineer drawled.
"Jest ez quick ez I get on my shoes."
"Is there a doctor near?" she asked breathlessly.
He answered without looking up:
"The best one that God ever sent to a sick bed. He
don't charge nobody a cent in these parts. He just
heals the sick because hit's his callin'. Come from
somewhar up North and built hisself a fine log house up
on the side of the mountains. Hit's full of all the
medicines in the world, too----"
"Will you ask him to come for me?" Mary broke
in.
"I'll jump on my hoss an' have him thar in half a'
hour. You can run right back, honey, and look out for
the po' ole critter till we get thar."
"Thank you! Thank you!" she answered grate fully.
"Not at all, not at all!" he protested as he swung
through the door and hurried to the low-pitched sheds
in which his horse and cow were stabled. "Be thar in
no time!"
When Mary returned, Nance was still busy in the
kitchen. She had built a fire and put the turkey in
the oven.
Mary was counting the minutes now until the doctor
should come. The old woman's prattle about the return
of her lost boy, so big and strong and handsome, had
become unendurable. She felt that she should scream
and collapse unless help came at once. She looked at
her watch. It was just thirty-five minutes from the
time she had left the cabin in the valley below.
She sprang to her feet with a smothered cry of joy.
The beat of a horse's hoof at full gallop was ringing
down the road.
In two minutes the Doctor's firm footstep was heard
at the kitchen door.
Nance turned with a look of glad surprise.
"Well, fur the land sake, ef hit ain't Doctor
Mulford! Come right in!" she cried.
The Doctor seized her hand.
"And how is my good friend, Mrs. Owens, this
morning?" he asked cheerfully.
Mary was studying him with deep interest. She had
asked herself the question a hundred times how much she
could tell him--what to say and what to leave unsaid.
One glance at his calm, intellectual face was enough.
He was a man of striking appearance, six feet tall,
forty-five years of age, hair prematurely gray and a
slight stoop to his broad shoulders. His brown eyes
seemed to enfold the old woman in their sympathy.
Nance was chattering her answer to his greeting.
"Oh, I'm feelin' fine, Doctor--" she dropped her
voice confidentially--"and you're just in time for a
good dinner. My boy that was lost has come home. He's
a great big fellow, wears fine clothes and come up the
mountain all the way in a devil wagon." She put her
hand to her mouth. "Sh! He's asleep! We won't wake
him till dinner! He's all tired out."
The Doctor nodded understandingly and turned toward
Mary.
"And this young lady?"
"Oh, that's his wife from New York--ain't she
purty?"
The Doctor saw the delicate hands trembling and
extended his.
No word was spoken. None was needed. There was
healing in his touch, healing in his whole being. No
man or woman could resist the appeal of his
personality. Their secrets were yielded with perfect
faith.
"Come with me quickly," Mary whispered.
"I understand," he answered carelessly.
Turning again to Nance, he said with easy
confidence:
"I'll not disturb you with your cooking, Mrs.
Owens. Go right on with it. I'll have a little chat
with your son's wife. If she's from New York I want to
ask her about some of my people up there----"
"All right," Nance answered, "but don't you wake
HIM! Go with her inter the shed-room."
"We'll go on tip-toe!" the Doctor whispered.
Nance nodded, smiled and bent again over the oven.
Mary led him quickly through the living-room, head
averted from the couch, and into the prison cell in
which she had passed the night. The physician
glanced with a startled look at the gold still
scattered on the floor.
She seized his hand and swayed.
He touched the brown hair of her bared head gently
and pressed her hand.
"Steady, now, child, tell me quickly."
"Yes, yes," she gasped, "I'll tell you the
truth----"
He held her gaze.
"And the whole truth--it's best."
Mary nodded, tried to speak and failed. She drew
her breath and steadied herself, still gripping his
hand.
"I will," she began faintly. "He's dead----"
She paused and nodded toward the living-room.
"The man--her son?"
"Yes. We came last night from Asheville. We were
on our honeymoon. We haven't been married but three
weeks. I never knew the truth about his life and
character until last night when he told me that this
old woman was his mother. I found a case of jewels in
the bag he carried--jewels that belonged to a man in
New York who was robbed and shot. I recognized the
case. He confessed to me at last in cold, brutal words
that he was a thief. I couldn't believe it at first.
I tried to make him give up his criminal career.
He laughed at me. He gloried in it. I tried to leave
him. He choked me into insensibility and drove me into
this cell, where I spent the night. He brought the
gold that you saw on the floor which he had honestly
made to give to his old mother--but for a devilish
purpose. He showed it to her last night to rouse her
avarice and make her first agree to hide his stolen
goods. He succeeded too well. Before he had revealed
himself she slipped into the room at daylight while he
slept in a drunken stupor, murdered him and took the
money. The struggle waked me and I rushed in. She
gripped her knife to kill me. I told her that she had
murdered her own son and she went mad----"
She paused for breath and her lips trembled
piteously.
"You know what to do, Doctor?"
"Yes!"
"And you'll help me?"
He smiled tenderly and nodded his head.
"God knows you need it, child!"
The nerves snapped at last, and she sank a limp
heap at his feet.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE CALL DIVINE
The Doctor threw off his coat and took charge of the
stricken house. He sent his waiting messenger for a
faithful nurse, a mountain woman whom he had trained,
and began the fight for Mary's life. The collapse into
which she had fallen would require weeks of patient
care. There was no immediate danger of death, and
while he awaited the arrival of help, he turned into
the living-room to examine the body of the slain
husband.
The head had fallen backward over the side of the
lounge and a pool of blood, still warm and red, lay on
the floor in a widening circle beneath it. His quick
eye took in its significance at a glance. He sprang
forward, ripped the shirt wide open and applied his ear
to the breast.
"He's still alive!" he cried excitedly.
He examined the ugly wound in the left side and
found that the knife had penetrated the lung. The
heart had not been touched. The blow on the neck had
not been fatal. The shock of the final stroke had
merely choked the wounded man into collapse from the
hemorrhage of the left lung. The position into which
the body had fallen across the couch had gradually
cleared the accumulated blood. There was a chance to
save his life.
In ten minutes he had applied stimulants and
restored respiration, but the deep wheeze from the
stricken lung told only too plainly the dangerous
character of the wound. It would be a bitter fight.
His enormous vitality might win. The chances were
against him.
Jim's lips moved and he tried to speak.
The Doctor placed his hand on his mouth and shook
his head. The drooping eyelids closed in grateful
obedience.
The beat of horses' hoofs echoed down the mountain
road. His nurse and messenger were coming. He decided
at once to move Mary to his own house. She must regain
consciousness in new surroundings or her chance of
survival would be slender. To awake in this miserable
cabin, the scene of the tragedy she had witnessed,
might be instantly fatal. Besides she must not yet
know that the brute who had choked her was alive and
might still hold the power of life and death over
her frail body. She believed him dead. It was best
so. He might be dead and buried before she recovered
consciousness. The fever that burned her brain would
completely cloud reason for days.
He hastily improvised a stretcher with a blanket
and two strong quilting-poles which stood in the corner
of the room. Nance helped him without question. She
obeyed his slightest suggestion with childlike
submission.
He placed Mary on the stretcher, wrapped her body
in another warm blanket and turned to his nurse and
messenger:
"Carry her to my house. Walk slowly and rest
whenever you wish. Don't wake her. Tell Aunt Abbie to
put her to bed in the south room overlooking the
valley. Don't leave her a minute, Betty. She's in the
first collapse of brain fever. You know what to do.
I'll be there in an hour. You come back here, John. I
want you."
The mountaineer nodded and seized one end of the
stretcher. The nurse took up the other and the Doctor
held wide the cabin door as they passed out.
For three weeks he fought the grim battle with
Death for the two young lives the Christmas
tragedy had thrust into his hands. He gave his
entire time day and night to the desperate struggle.
When pneumonia had developed and Jim's life hung by
a hair, he slept on the couch in the living-room of the
cabin and had Nance make for herself a bed on the floor
of the kitchen.
The old woman remained an obedient child. She
cooked the Doctor's meals and did the work about the
house and yard as if nothing had disturbed her habits
of lonely plodding. She believed implicitly all that
was told her. Her son had pneumonia from cold he had
taken in the long drive from Asheville. The house must
be kept quiet. John Sanders was helping her nurse him.
She was sure the Doctor would save him.
Even the knife with which she had stabbed him made
no impression on her numbed senses. The Doctor had
scoured every trace of blood from the blade and put it
back in its place on the shelf, lest she should miss it
and ask questions. She used it daily without the
slightest memory of the frightful story it might tell.
Each morning before going to the cabin the Doctor
watched with patience for the first signs of returning
consciousness in Mary's fever-wracked body. The day
she lifted her grateful eyes to his and her lips
moved in a tremulous question he raised his hand
gently.
"Sh! Child--don't talk! It's all right. You're
getting better. I've been with you every day. You're
in my house now. You'll soon be yourself again."
She smiled wanly, put her delicate hand on his and
pressed it gratefully.
"I understand. You thank me--you say that I am
good to you. But I'm not. This is my life. I heal
the sick because I must. I love this battle royal with
Death. He beats me sometimes--but I never quit. I'm
always tramping on his trail, and I've won this fight!"
The calm brown eyes held her in a spell and she
smiled again.
"Sleep now," he said soothingly. "Sleep day and
night. Just wake to take a little food--that's all and
Nature will do the rest."
He stroked her hand gently until her eyelids
closed.
Two days later Jim clung to the Doctor's hand and
insisted on talking.
"Better wait a little longer, boy," the physician
answered kindly. "You're not out of the woods
yet----"
"I can't wait--Doc----" Jim pleaded. "I've just
got to ask you something."
"All right. You can talk five minutes."
"My wife, Doc, how is she? You took her to your
house, John told me. She'll get well?"
"Yes. She's rapidly recovering now."
"What does she say about me?"
"She thinks you're dead."
"You haven't told her?"
"No."
"Why?"
"She had all she could stand----"
Jim stared in silence.
"You think she'd be sorry to know I am alive?" he
asked slowly.
"It would be a great shock."
The steel blue eyes slowly filled with tears.
"God! I am rotten, ain't I?"
"There's no doubt about that, my son," was the firm
answer.
"Why did you fight so hard to save me--I wonder?"
"An old feud between Death and me."
Jim suddenly seized the Doctor's hand.
"Say, you can't fool me--you're a good one, Doc.
You've been a friend to me and you've got to
help now--you've just got to. You're the only one
on earth who can. You've a great big heart and you
can't go back on a fellow that's down and out. Give me
a chance! You will--won't you?"
The hot fingers gripped the Doctor's hand with
pleading tenderness.
The brown eyes searched Jim's soul.
"If you can show me it's worth while----"
The fingers tightened their grip in silence.
"Just give me a chance, Doc," he said at last, "and
I'll show you! I ain't never had a chance to really
know what was right and what was wrong. If I'd a lived
here with my old mother she'd have told me. You know
what it is to be a stray dog on the streets of New
York? Even then, I'd have kept straight if I hadn't
been robbed by a lawyer and his pal. I didn't know
what I was doin' till that night here in this cabin--
honest to God, I didn't----"
He paused for breath and a tear stole down his
cheek. He fought for control of his emotions and went
on in low tones.
"I didn't know--till I saw my old mother creepin'
on me in the shadows with that big knife gleamin' in
her hand! I tried to stop her and I couldn't. I tried
to yell and strangled with blood. I saw the flames of
hell in her eyes and I had kindled them there--
God! I never knew until that minute! I'm broken and
bruised lyin' on the rocks now in the lowest pit----
Give me your hand, Doc! You're my only friend--I'm
goin' straight from now on--so help me God!"
He paused again for breath and sought the actor's
eyes.
"You'll stand by me, won't you?"
A friendly grip closed on the trembling fingers.
"Yes--I'll help you--if I can."
CHAPTER XXV
THE MOTHER
Mary was resting in the chair beneath the southern
windows of the sun-parlor of the Doctor's bungalow. He
had built his home of logs cut from the mountainside.
Its rooms were supplied with every modern convenience
and comfort. Clear spring water from the cliff above
poured into the cypress tank constructed beneath the
roof. An overflow pipe sent a sparkling, bubbling and
laughing through the lawn, refreshing the wild flowers
planted along its edges.
The view from the window looking south was one of
ravishing beauty and endless charm. Perched on a
rising spur of the Black Mountain the house commanded a
view of the long valley of the Swannanoa opening at the
lower end into the wide, sunlit sweep of the lower
hills around Asheville. Upward the balsam-crowned
peaks towered among the clouds and stars.
No two hours of the day were just alike.
Sometimes the sun was raining showers of diamonds
on the trembling tree-tops of the valleys while the
blackest storm clouds hung in ominous menace around
Mount Mitchell and the Cat-tail. Sometimes it was
raining in the valley--the rain cloud a level sheet of
gray cloth stretching from the foot of the lawn across
to the crags beyond, while the sun wrapped the little
bungalow in a warm, white mantle.
Mary had never tired of this enchanted world during
the days of her convalescence. The Doctor, with firm
will, had lifted every care from her mind. She had
gratefully submitted to his orders, and asked no
questions.
She began to wonder vaguely about his life and
people and why he had left the world in which a man of
his culture and power must have moved, to bury himself
in these mountain wilds. She wondered if he had
married, separated from his wife and chosen the life of
a recluse. He volunteered no information about
himself.
When not attending his patients he spent his hours
in the greenhouse among his flowers or in the long
library extension of the bungalow. More than five
thousand volumes filled the solid shelves. A massive
oak table, ten feet in length and four feet wide,
stood in the center of the room, always generously
piled with books, magazines and papers. At the end of
this table he kept the row of books which bore
immediately on the theme he was studying.
Beside the window opening on the view of the valley
stood his old-fashioned desk--six feet long, its top a
labyrinth of pigeon-holes and tiny drawers.
He pursued his studies with boyish enthusiasm and
chattered of them to Mary by the hour--with never a
word passing his lips about himself.
Aunt Abbie, the cook, brought her a cup of tea, and
Mary volunteered a question.
"Do you know the Doctor's people, Auntie?" she
asked hesitatingly.
"Lord, child, he's a mystery to everybody! All we
know is that he's the best man that ever walked the
earth. He won't talk and the mountain folks are too
polite to nose into his business. He saved my boy's
life one summer, and when he was strong and well and
went back to Asheville to his work, I had nothin' to do
but to hold my hands, and I come here to cook for him.
He tries to pay me wages but I laugh at him. I told
him if he could save my boy's life for nothin' I reckon
I could cook him a few good meals without pay----"
Her eyes filled with tears. She brushed them off,
laughed and added:
"He lets me alone now and don't pester me no more
about money."
Her tea and toast finished, Mary placed the tray on
the table, rose with a sudden look of pain, and made
her way slowly to the library.
A warm fire of hardwood logs sparkled in the big
stone fireplace. The Doctor was out on a visit to a
patient. He had given her the freedom of the place and
had especially insisted that she use his books and make
his library her resting place whenever her mind was
fagged. She had spent many quiet hours in its
inspiring atmosphere.
She seated herself at his desk and studied the
calendar which hung above it. A sudden terror
overwhelmed her; she buried her face in her arms and
burst into tears.
She was still lying across the desk, sobbing, when
the Doctor walked into the room.
He touched her hair reproachfully with his firm
hand.
"Why, what's this? My little soldier has disobeyed
orders?"
"I don't want to live now," she sobbed.
"And why not?"
"I--I--am going to be a mother," she whispered.
"So?"
"The mother of a criminal! Oh, Doctor, it's
horrible! Why did you let me live? The hell I passed
through that night was enough--God knows! This will be
unendurable. I've made up my mind--I'll die first----"
"Rubbish, child! Rubbish!" he answered with a
laugh. "Where did you get all this misinformation?"
"You know what my husband was. How can you ask?"
"Because I happen to know also his wife--the
mother-to-be of this supposed criminal who has just set
sail for the shores of our planet--and I know that she
is one of the purest and sweetest souls who ever lost
her way in the jungles of the world. If you were the
criminal, dear heart, the case might be hopeless. But
you're not. You are only the innocent victim of your
own folly. That doesn't count in the game of
Nature----"
"What do you mean?" she asked breathlessly.
"Simply this: The part which the male plays in the
reproduction of the race is small in comparison with
the role of the female. He is merely a supernumerary
who steps on the stage for a moment
and speaks one word announcing the arrival of the
queen. The queen is the mother. She plays the star
role in the drama of Heredity. She is never off the
stage for a single moment. We inherit the most obvious
physical traits from our male ancestors but even these
may be modified by the will of the mother."
"Modified by the will of the mother?" she repeated
blankly.
"Certainly. There are yet long days and weeks and
months before your babe will be born--at least seven
months. There's not a sight or sound of earth or
heaven that can reach or influence this coming human
being save through your eyes and ears and touch and
soul. Almighty God can speak His message only through
you. You are his ambassador on earth in this solemn
hour. What your husband was, is of little importance.
There is not a moment, waking or sleeping, day or
night, that does not bring to you its divine
opportunity. This human life is yours--absolutely to
mold and fashion in body and mind as you will."
"You're just saying this to keep me from suicide,"
Mary interrupted.
"I am telling you the simplest truth of physical
life. You can even change the contour of your
baby's head if you like. You think in your silly fears
that the bull neck and jaw of the father will reappear
in the child. It might be so unless you see fit to
change it. All any father can do is to transmit
general physical traits unless modified by the will of
the mother."
"You mean that I can choose even the personal
appearance of my child?" she asked in blank amazement.
"Exactly that. Choose the type of man you wish
your babe to be and it shall be so. Who in all the
world would you prefer that he resemble?"
"You," she answered promptly.
He smiled gently.
"That pays me for all my trouble, child! No doctor
ever got a bigger fee than that. Banks may fail, but
I'll never lose it. Your choice simplifies that matter
very much. You won't need a picture in your room----"
"A picture could determine the features of an
unborn babe?" she asked incredulously.
"Beyond a doubt, and it will determine character
sometimes. I knew a mother in the mountains of Vermont
who hung the picture of a ship under full sail in her
living-room. She bore seven sons. Not one of them
ever saw the ocean until he was grown and yet all
of them became sailors. This was not an accident. In
her age and loneliness she blamed God for taking her
children from her. Yet she had made sailors of them
all by the selection of a single piece of furniture in
her room. Nature has a way of starting her children on
their journey through this world very nearly equal--
each a bundle of possibilities in the hands of a
mother. A father may transmit physical disease, if his
body is unsound. Such marriages should be prohibited
by law. But nine-tenths of the spiritual traits out of
which character is formed are the work of the mother.
A criminal mother will bring into the world only
criminals. A criminal male may be the father of a
saint. The responsibility of shaping the destiny of
the race rests with the mother----"
The Doctor sprang to his feet and paced the floor,
his arms gripped behind his back in deep thought. He
paused before the enraptured listener and hesitated to
speak the thought in his mind.
He lifted his hand suddenly, his decision
apparently made.
"It is of the utmost importance to the race that
our mothers shall be pure. Better certainly if both
father and mother are so. It is indispensable that the
mother shall be! On this elemental fact rests the
dual standard of sex morals. On this fact rests the
hope of a glorified humanity through the development of
an intelligent motherhood. Stay here with me until
your child is born and I'll prove the truth of every
word I've spoken----"
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