Part 9 (1/2)

”It would be professional,” said Vesta. ”Come, Doctor Strong, you see I can laugh about it, and you must laugh, too. Let us shake hands, and agree to forget all about it.”

Geoffrey shook hands, and said she was very magnanimous; but he still felt hollow. The only further remark that his seething brain presented was a sc.r.a.p of ancient doggerel:

”I wish I was dead, Or down at Owl's Head, Or anywhere else but here!”

This was manifestly inappropriate, so he kept silence, and paddled on doggedly.

”And aren't you going to ask what my disappointment really was?”

inquired Vesta, presently. ”But perhaps you have guessed?”

No, Geoffrey had not guessed.

”Don't you want to know? I should really--it would be a comfort to me to talk it over with you, if you don't mind.”

Geoffrey would be delighted to hear anything that she chose to tell him.

”Yes, you seem delighted. Well--you see, you have not understood, not understood in the very least; and now in a moment you are going to know all about it.” She paused for a moment, and there was an appeal in her clear, direct gaze; but Geoffrey did not want to be appealed to.

”I was at Johns Hopkins,” said Vesta. ”It was the beginning of my second year; I broke down, and had to give it up. I was studying medicine myself, Doctor Strong.”

”Oh!” cried Geoffrey Strong.

The exclamation was a singular one; a long cry of amazement and reprobation. Every fibre of the man stiffened, and he sat rigid, a statue of Disapproval.

”I beg your pardon!” he said, after a moment. ”I said it before, but I don't know that there is anything else to say. No doubt I was very stupid, yet I hardly know how I could have supposed just this to be the truth. I--no! I beg your pardon. That is all.”

The girl looked keenly at him. ”You are not sorry for me any more, are you?” she said.

Geoffrey was silent.

”You were sorry, very sorry!” she went on. ”So long as you thought I had lost that precious possession, a lover; had lost the divine privilege of--what is the kind of thing they say? merging my life in another's, becoming the meek and gentle helpmeet of my G.o.d-given lord and master--you were very sorry. I could not make it out; it was so unlike what I expected from you. It was so human, so kind, so--yes, so womanlike. But the moment you find it is not a man, but only the aspiration of a lifetime, the same aspiration that in you is right and fitting and beautiful--you--you sit there like a--lamp-post--and disapprove of me.”

”I am sorry!” said Geoffrey. He was trying hard to be reasonable, and said to himself that he would not be irritated, come what might. ”I cannot approve of women studying medicine, but I am sorry for you, Miss Blyth.”

Her face, which had been bitter enough in its set and scornful beauty, suddenly melted into a bewildering softness of light and laughter. She leaned forward. ”But it was funny!” she said. ”It was very, very funny, Doctor Strong, you must admit that. You were so compa.s.sionate, so kind, thinking me--”

”Do you think perhaps--but never mind! you certainly have the right to say whatever you choose,” said Geoffrey, holding himself carefully.

”And all the time,” she went on, ”I utterly unconscious, and only fretting because I could not have my own life, my own will, my own way!”

”By Jove!” said Geoffrey, starting. ”That--that's what I say myself!”

”Really!” said Vesta, dryly. ”You see I also am human, after all”

”Do you see little Vesta anywhere, sister?” asked Miss Phoebe Blyth.

Miss Vesta had just lighted her lamp, and was standing with folded hands, in her usual peaceful att.i.tude of content, gazing out upon the sunset sea. A black line lay out there on the rosy gold of the water; she had been watching it, watching the rhythmic flash of the paddle, and thinking happy, gentle thoughts, such as old ladies of tender heart often think. Miss Phoebe had no part in these thoughts, and Miss Vesta looked hurriedly round at the sound of her crisp utterance. Her breath fluttered a little, but she did not speak. Miss Phoebe came up behind her and peered out of the window. ”I don't see where the child can be,”

she said, rather querulously. ”I thought she was in the garden, but I don't--do you see her anywhere, Vesta?”