After the lessons were finished, Susie, obeying a strong impulse, poured out her grateful heart to Clara for all her care and kindness. During the conversation, Clara said: “When I am a married woman I shall be so much more independent. No tongue will dare wag against me because I am your friend.”
“It pains me more than anything else,” said Susie, “to think that being my friend must injure you.”
“It cannot. It cannot injure any one to do what is decent and right. Knowing you, dear, and befriending you in your trouble, has shown me more of the world than I could have learned otherwise in an age. To be sure it has destroyed some illusions. I shall not have Louise Kendrick for bride’s-maid, but I’ve found her out, and that is something. Why, you ought to see the letters she sent me constantly during the four years I was at Stonybrook. Such protestations of unalterable friendship! You, Susie, though you are no spoiled pet of fortune, like her, have a heart that is worth ten thousand of hers. She is a mere fair-weather friend, though I did not suspect it; but you, I know, would never fail me.”
“How I should hate myself if I thought that were possible; but it cannot be. My only trouble is, that I may never be able to be of any real service to you. Do you remember the fable we read of the lion and the mouse? How the mouse gnawed the meshes of the net, ‘and left the noble lion to go where he pleased?’ Remember this, you precious girl, if you are ever in trouble: real, deep affection is capable of creating a will that may work wonders even with the poorest means.” Clara was struck with Susie’s enthusiasm of sentiment, which at times found expression in the most eloquent way; and she remembered these words and the manner of their utterance in after years.
Not many days before the time set for Clara’s wedding, Dr. Delano received a telegram from home. His father was dangerously ill and sent for his son; so the marriage could not take place till January. Meanwhile, and during the very last days of the year, Susie’s baby was born. Mrs. Buzzell virtually adopted it at once. This little helpless one, so charming in all its movements, Susie thought, lifted the last burden from her heart caused by Dan’s unworthiness. She felt strong enough to brave anything for its sake, and before it was a week old her mind was busy with schemes for making money, that she might give it all the advantages of education and culture. She held its tiny, tightly-clinging fingers in hers, looked into its uncertain colored eyes, and marveled, as mothers are wont to marvel, over a mystery as old as nature, and yet ever charming, ever new. The desire to have Dan see the baby often recurred to Susie. She felt more kindly towards him since she had definitely abandoned all hope of his ever loving her again, and since a new and infinitely tender, infinitely absorbing love had been born in her own heart. She could not wholly share Clara’s intense disgust for Dan’s conduct when they had last met, though she by no means approved of it. She spoke to Mrs. Buzzell of her desire that Dan should see the baby, and Mrs. Buzzell admitted that the wish was natural; but even while they were considering the propriety of writing a note to Dan the doctor called, bringing the news that his son had started for California the day before. In a letter to his mother he had said that he should not “come back in a hurry.” Susie was very silent. He had not cared, then, to wait until his child was born—not even cared really whether she or it, or both, lived or died. The next moment there came a new feeling, and this was shame that she had loved so coarse a being. To be sure, she had expressed the same thing to Dan in returning his money; but this was partly real and partly the effect of exaltation of mood. This time, the feeling was the result of pure reason, and it was permanent.
If letters are Love’s barometer, as Dr. Forest once expressed it, Clara must have been well satisfied with the fervency and sincerity of her lover’s devotion, for he wrote continually. The letters were delivered at eight o’clock in the morning—the hour when the doctor’s family were always at breakfast—and though the postman’s ring was a very common occurrence during this family reunion, it had never been so constant before. Leila and Linnie, on sitting down to the table, used to amuse themselves speculating whether it would occur before the hominy was served all around, or during the second cup of coffee. When the ring came, and Dinah marched through the dining-room to open the door, it was a perennial joke with Leila to pass the honey or the sugar-bowl to Clara, and when she good-naturedly refused them, apologizing for their deficiency in sweetness. As Clara could not be teazed in the least, so long as nothing disrespectful was said of her idol, it was wonderful that the sisters could find so much pleasure in an endless repetition of a childish pleasantry. On one of these occasions, when Dinah brought in the regulation letter to Clara, Leila said:
“Papa, do you know how Dr. Delano commences all his letters to Clara?” Clara looked a little annoyed as she put her precious missive in her pocket for future delectation. Could it be possible that her privacy had been invaded by her saucy sisters?
“Why, yes,” the doctor answered, humoring Leila. “I think I could guess; that is, if it were any of my business.”
“Well, guess then,” said Leila, nothing daunted by the implied rebuke; but seeing he did not try, she declared boldly that they all commenced, “Essence of Violet and Consummate Sweetness.” This time there was a general laugh, and Leila was satisfied over the success of a joke that had been concocted hours before. On another occasion when the letter came, Leila expressed the pious hope that Mr. Delano’s case was in the hands of some physician less distracted and harassed for time than Dr. Delano must be. “I’m sure his literary labors must weigh heavily upon him, though perhaps he employs a stenographic amanuensis.”
One day, when the letter was brought in as usual, Clara said, “Why, this is not for me!”