"Besides," she went on after a pause, "things are changing very fast now, since the general airing began. Dr. Prince Morrow in New York, with that society of his--(I can never remember the name--makes me think of tooth brushes) has done much; and the popular magazines have taken it up. You must have seen some of those articles, Vivian."

"I have," the girl said, "but I couldn't bear to read them--ever."

"That's it!" responded her grandmother, tartly; "we bring up girls to think it is not proper to know anything about the worst danger before them. Proper!--Why my dear child, the young girls are precisely the ones _to_ know! it's no use to tell a woman who has buried all her children--or wishes she had!--that it was all owing to her ignorance, and her husband's. You have to know beforehand if it's to do you any good."

After awhile she continued: "Women are waking up to this all over the country, now. Nice women, old and young. The women's clubs and congresses are taking it up, as they should. Some states have pa.s.sed laws requiring a medical certificate--a clean bill of health--to go with a license to marry. You can see that's reasonable! A man has to be examined to enter the army or navy, even to get his life insured; Marriage and Parentage are more important than those things! And we are beginning to teach children and young people what they ought to know. There's hope for us!"

"But Grandma--it's so awful--about the children."

"Yes dear, yes. It's pretty awful. But don't feel as if we were all on the brink of perdition. Remember that we've got a whole quarter of the men to bank on. That's a good many, in this country. We're not so bad as Europe--not yet--in this line. Then just think of this, child. We have lived, and done splendid things all these years, even with this load of disease on us. Think what we can do when we're rid of it! And that's in the hands of woman, my dear--as soon as we know enough.

Don't be afraid of knowledge. When we all know about this we can stop it! Think of that. We can religiously rid the world of all these--'undesirable citizens.'"

"How, Grandma?"

"Easy enough, my dear. By not marrying them."

There was a lasting silence.

Grandma finally went to sleep, making a little soft whistling sound through her parted lips; but Vivian lay awake for long slow hours.

It was one thing to make up her own mind, though not an easy one, by any means; it was quite another to tell Morton.

He gave her no good opportunity. He did not say again, "Will you marry me?" So that she could say, "No," and be done with it. He did not even say, "When will you marry me?" to which she could answer "Never!" He merely took it for granted that she was going to, and continued to monopolize her as far as possible, with all pleasant and comfortable attentions.

She forced the situation even more sharply than she wished, by turning from him with a shiver when he met her on the stairs one night and leaned forward as if to kiss her.

He stopped short.

"What is the matter, Vivian--are you ill?"

"No--" She could say nothing further, but tried to pa.s.s him.

"Look here--there _is_ something. You've been--different--for several days. Have I done anything you don't like?"

"Oh, Morton!" His question was so exactly to the point; and so exquisitely inadequate! He had indeed.

"I care too much for you to let anything stand between us now," he went on.

"Come, there's no one in the upper hall--come and 'tell me the worst.'"

"As well now as ever." thought the girl. Yet when they sat on the long window seat, and he turned his handsome face toward her, with that newer, better look on it, she could not believe that this awful thing was true.

"Now then--What is wrong between us?" he said.

She answered only, "I will tell you the worst, Morton. I cannot marry you--ever."

He whitened to the lips, but asked quietly, "Why?"

"Because you have--Oh, I _cannot_ tell you!"

"I have a right to know, Vivian. You have made a man of me. I love you with my whole heart. What have I done--that I have not told you?"

Then she recalled his contrite confessions; and contrasted what he had told her with what he had not; with the unspeakable fate to which he would have consigned her--and those to come; and a sort of holy rage rose within her.

"You never told me of the state of your health, Morton."

It was done. She looked to see him fall at her feet in utter abashment, but he did nothing of the kind. What he did do astonished her beyond measure. He rose to his feet, with clenched fists.

"Has that d.a.m.ned doctor been giving me away?" he demanded. "Because if he has I'll kill him!"

"He has not," said Vivian. "Not by the faintest hint, ever. And is _that_ all you think of?--

"Good-bye."

She rose to leave him, sick at heart.

Then he seemed to realize that she was going; that she meant it.

"Surely, surely!" he cried, "you won't throw me over now! Oh, Vivian!

I told you I had been wild--that I wasn't fit to touch your little slippers! And I wasn't going to ask you to marry me till I felt sure this was all done with. All the rest of my life was yours, darling--is yours. You have made me over--surely you won't leave me now!"

"I must," she said.

He looked at her despairingly. If he lost her he lost not only a woman, but the hope of a life. Things he had never thought about before had now grown dear to him; a home, a family, an honorable place in the world, long years of quiet happiness.

"I can't lose you!" he said. "I _can't_!"

She did not answer, only sat there with a white set face and her hands tight clenched in her lap.

"Where'd you get this idea anyhow?" he burst out again. "I believe it's that woman doctor! What does she know!"

"Look here, Morton," said Vivian firmly. "It is not a question of who told me. The important thing is that it's--true! And I cannot marry you."

"But Vivian--" he pleaded, trying to restrain the intensity of his feeling; "men get over these things. They do, really. It's not so awful as you seem to think. It's very common. And I'm nearly well. I was going to wait a year or two yet--to make sure--. Vivian! I'd cut my hand off before I'd hurt you!"

There was real agony in his voice, and her heart smote her; but there was something besides her heart ruling the girl now.

"I am sorry--I'm very sorry," she said dully. "But I will not marry you."

"You'll throw me over--just for that! Oh, Vivian don't--you can't. I'm no worse than other men. It seems so terrible to you just because you're so pure and white. It's only what they call--wild oats, you know. Most men do it."

She shook her head.

"And will you punish me--so cruelly--for that? I can't live without you, Vivian--I won't!"

"It is not a question of punishing you, Morton," she said gently. "Nor myself. It is not the sin I am considering. It is the consequences!"