Читать книгу The High Way - Caroline Atwater Mason - Страница 5

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In the city of Peterboro, in the library of Judge Sawyer, a dozen men or more were gathered on an Autumn evening a few weeks later. Dinner was just over.

At a table by the chimney-corner a butler stood ready to pour coffee and supply the guests with cigars. The atmosphere of the book-lined room grew steadily hazier, noisier, more redolent of fumes and fragrance. Meanwhile the log-fire in the big chimney gave its glow; the effect of the Judge’s excellent dinner, his wine, his coffee, his cigars, the contagion of liberal cheer belonging to his house, were perceptible in the rising tide of good fellowship.

It was with some small difficulty that, when the clock struck half-past nine, Judge Sawyer brought his guests to attention. As they dropped complacently into easy chairs drawn into a semicircle about the fire, he announced, taking his own place beside a table with sudden assumption of gravity, “The Symposium will now come to order. Is there any business?”

Silence followed.

“One very pleasurable duty is mine,” then declared the Judge, “before calling upon the chairman of the evening, my neighbour, Dr. Loring, to take his place,” and he bowed with a touch of ceremony to the gentleman on his left who chanced to be the President of the Divinity School.

“A new member has been, with his own cordial assent, elected to our number. He could not join us at dinner but I expect him now at any moment. Professor Gregg, I think that this fact may come as news to you, the election having taken place in your absence.”

“At the last meeting, I gather. Quite correct, Judge. I had not then returned from my vacation. Very well. Pray proceed.”

The speaker, Douglas Gregg, even in this group of younger men, gave an impression of unimpaired mental and physical vigour. The lines of thought and study in his clean-cut, clean-shaven face, the brooding concentration in the eyes, something of intellectual authority belonging to the man, made him easily here primus inter pares.

Hardly had the Professor spoken when the sound of the house-door opening and closing was heard and Judge Sawyer exclaimed, “There he is now! Good work.” The library door thrown wide, a servant announced:

“Dr. Hugh Gregg.”

There entered then a broad-shouldered, heavily built man of forty or more, a man with round, high-coloured face, graying hair and no marked distinction of appearance beyond a keen, even hard glance through heavily framed spectacles. Seeing him a flicker of surprise and something more than surprise crossed Professor Gregg’s face, to pass instantly as Dr. Loring again turned to him.

“You will forgive us, Professor, for springing this little surprise on you to-night. It was the wish of the Symposium to carry through this action without your knowledge. In this choice we seek to honour you, our most eminent member. We would honour your son, who has so early won more important honours for himself in his profession. Above all, we are honoured ourselves in being now able to count both Greggs, father and son, members of the Symposium.”

Every man had risen during this little speech. All eyes were directed to the newcomer, but his own were fixed upon his father’s face. Crossing swiftly to him their hands and eyes met in the silent encounter of strong men, albeit they presented a startling contrast.

“All right, Hugh,” the old man said briefly, with a gesture as of passing the other on; “you’re rather young for us, I should have said, but I think you will make good.”

The new member adequately welcomed, Dr. Loring took the chair, and after a speech in which Gregg, the father, was described as “a seer” and “prophet,” and Gregg, the son, as the “skilled physician” and “devoted student of science,” he introduced Professor Bolles of “the University.” Bolles would read a paper on “The Higher Hedonism,” this to be followed by the usual free, informal discussion.

Apologizing for what might seem a cynical incongruity in his choice of a subject of consideration in the present crisis of Europe’s agony, Professor Bolles, whose department in the University was psychology, proceeded to set forth with careful elaboration the ancient thesis that human actions are right in proportion as they tend on the whole to promote happiness; wrong as they ultimately produce pain and suffering. “Prudential Wisdom” is the guide of life.

In general the essayist took the position that man has no moral authority nor obligation higher than a well-balanced self-interest. In the discussion which followed disagreement with Professor Bolles’ positions was expressed by Dr. Chance, pastor of the Church of All Souls with which Bolles was associated. The clergyman noted his sense of a certain flaw in the Professor’s conception.

Dr. Chance, emphatically and scrupulously clerical of attire, was noticeable for massive good looks and general bonhomie. His urbanity was emphasized rather than diminished, as he volunteered criticism, by the genial temper and deferential attitude towards the essayist with which it was offered. He seemed to assure Professor Bolles, “You and I understand each other perfectly; this much in opposition belongs to the cloth.” But a different note was struck when, as Chance concluded his contribution to the discussion, Dr. Loring called upon Dr. Hugh Gregg to give the Club the benefit of his opinions. With no introduction of a flattering nature to the Symposium, no apology for the fact that this was his first appearance among them and probably as the youngest man there, the physician asserted his position as squarely with that of Professor Bolles.

“Many convictions,” he said, “which an earlier generation held as incontrovertible were so only from the passing point of view and naturally give place to increasing knowledge. Dr. Chance’s theories have been widely held in the past but they seem to me no longer tenable,—that is outside the clergy. Obligation, of course, is a perpetual factor in human affairs but it is the obligation to further the progress of the race according to scientific principles. Bentham’s frank remark that the word ‘ought’ or ‘ought not’ should be banished from our vocabulary as concerns morals, quoted by Professor Bolles, struck me as an indication of his accurate thinking. As for the present war, there can be no question that the greatest good of the greatest number demands the sacrifice which the nations are making at this moment. The bloodshed is neither more nor less moral than vivisection. Only sentimentalists and women would put a stop to vivisection or to the war, simply because the price is high. Life, somebody says, should teach us contempt of death, and death contempt of life. When popular intelligence is a little better educated, in the direction suggested by the paper we have been listening to, there will be, for instance, no further scruples in society at large regarding the elimination of morons in every community, and of such other defective or superfluous beings as encroach upon the sum total of common happiness and safety.”

Dr. Hugh’s position was eagerly endorsed and as eagerly opposed by one and another. Midnight was long past when Dr. Loring, interrupting the tumult of talk which had long since passed the parliamentary stage, again called the Club to order. An expectant silence settled at once upon the company.

“I am reminded,” he said, “that the hour is passed for breaking up. But I am also impressed by the fact that, while we have heard pro and con from the bench and the bar to-night, from medical science and psychical science, from the clergy and the University on this theme,—the ablest thinkers who, perhaps, could be assembled in Peterboro,—no word has been spoken by Professor Gregg. Above all present, you, Professor, have the right to speak on this subject with authority. You must not remain silent.”

His challenge, received with a general murmur of approval, found the elder Gregg wearing a face like a mask, stiff and set. He responded, however, in a measured, half-meditative tone, the tone to which the Club was accustomed, a quiet smile tempering as he spoke the severity of his expression.

“You of this group know very well what you may expect from me in a discussion of a theme like this,” he said. “The categorical imperative has not, I believe, been superseded as yet. Utilitarianism or Hedonism,—benevolent or otherwise,—is and will always be, on the whole—whatever form its recrudescence takes—materialistic, atheistic, unmoral. As such it is a doctrine only too well suited to the fever of the present hour. We may expect to see doctrines akin to this gathering heat and momentum. But they will have their day and sink again. They are symptomatic, accidental, not permanent. God has made man in His own image and the canons of Epicurus in none of their variants can satisfy him long.”

The session closed with this deliverance of “the Seer.” As the guests came out upon the street they found a light snow falling, the first of the season. Several motor cars stood in waiting. Dr. Hugh Gregg urged his father to avail himself of his machine, but the older man drawing away from his detaining hand said:

“No, thank you, Hugh. Either you would make me late or I you, for I know you have a visit to make yet at the hospital. Really I would rather walk. It always takes six blocks of fresh air to counteract the Symposium’s coffee and tobacco. They so soak into a man’s system. Good-night.”

With this he took the arm of Dr. Chance who, residing in the same quarter of the city, had the habit of serving as the old Professor’s bodyguard on these occasions.

As they walked on Chance queried:

“I wonder if you know anything, Doctor, of a young fellow who has entered the Seminary this term by the name of Shannon? His father was a classmate of mine in college. He has written me of his son’s coming to Peterboro, recommends him to connection with my church.”

“Yes, I know the lad. Hardy Shannon—isn’t that the name?” The other assented. “A good boy all around I count him.”

“I haven’t seen him yet but I expect good things of him. His father you know belongs to a very fine old family. The Shannons are aristocrats in the best sense.”

“Oh, yes, I know something of Charles Shannon. He belongs distinctly to the Old School, has never gone beyond Paley’s Evidences and Butler’s Analogy, you know, but he has the tradition of culture all the same. He had an elder son,—perhaps you do not remember him,—in our school some years ago.—His name was Park, a handsome chap, rather brilliant, but erratic. He and I never got on well together. A good student, though. He broke off and went to Germany, if I remember right, about half-way through his Divinity course. His father is of a different stamp altogether.”

“The father must have done good solid work to stay in Melrose thirty years. That church is rated as of a very substantial sort.”

“One of the best, no doubt. Thoroughly respectable. But this young Shannon may be as little like his father as he is like his brother, it strikes me.”

“Well, Charley never had an atom of imagination or of daring, mental or moral, I must admit that. He is a literalist through and through.”

“The mother then is probably responsible for a good deal, Chance, for this youngster is alive and alight with fires within. We shall make something of him if the war lets him alone.”

“Which it won’t.”

“Which it probably will not. Meanwhile, although he doesn’t come into my classes by good rights until next year, I have asked him to help me as far as he can spare the time in getting my new book into shape for the publishers.”

“Have you really? Is he well qualified, do you find?”

“Perfectly. Also he is temperamentally simpatica.”

“Now this is very interesting.” Dr. Chance was plainly more than ordinarily interested. “For, as it happens, I have been considering whether Shannon might not be a man of sufficient calibre to collaborate with me this winter, as assistant you know, in our church work, chiefly the pastoral end. This naturally would only be if it did not conflict with your requirements.”

“No conflict whatever. My book will be finished now shortly.”

“Well, if you find him ‘simpatica’ as well as ‘alive’ and ‘alight’ he ought to serve my turn capitally. Sounds like a paragon.”

“Oh, decidedly a paragon!” returned the other coolly. “Have him by all means. But apply him with caution, Chance, to labours with the fair and susceptible portion of your parish. Paragons are perilous persons.”

“If you will answer for his valour I will answer for his discretion,” returned Chance confidently. “I know the father. A more cautious man never swung a parish.”

Chance bade the old Professor good-night at the door of his very unpretentious dwelling, 17 Locust Street, and went his way full of self-gratulation on his endorsement of Shannon.

As Gregg, entering his house, passed down the hall to his study he was confronted by the young man himself, already an habitué of the house. Passing him with respectful greeting, Shannon said:

“Yes, just done, Professor Gregg. That is, up to page 187. Good-night,” and so disappeared, leaving the house to silence and its master.

When Dr. Hugh Gregg, having made a visit at the Peterboro General Hospital, returned to his home, the city’s breadth separated from that of his father, he found its lower rooms still lighted. An extremely pretty woman, dressed in diaphanous evening gear, reclined upon a chaise longue in the small library which he entered, a cigarette between her fingers, a novel in her lap.

“Hello, Hugh!” she exclaimed. “Two o’clock, isn’t it? What kept you so late?”

The Doctor had turned to a desk and seating himself before it, opened a note-book, made an entry therein, then looked up.

“Hello, hello, Lyde. Where have you been in that ridiculous frock?”

“At that musicale of the Marshes. You’ve been——? Oh, I remember now. This was the evening for that ancient and honourable set of sages, the Symposium,—is that the name?—to initiate you into their esoteric mysteries, wasn’t it? Do tell every word.”

“Please excuse me. There were too many.”

“Was your father there? Was he pleased about your being made a member?”

“I think not exactly.”

“I wonder why not.”

“Well, you know the old gentleman may not fancy my observing precisely what manner of free-thinking company he keeps.”

“Hugh, that is nonsense! Your father is not like that. I’ll stand up for him though he doesn’t like me.”

Silence followed this remark. Mrs. Gregg pursued her subject, thoughtfully.

“I wonder why he doesn’t like me. Many people do, in fact, most. Hugh,”—this after a pause,—“do you suppose it is because I smoke?”

Her husband had risen and was moving towards the door.

“Why, possibly. Not definitely because you smoke, but because you’re the kind of woman who cares to smoke and all the rest of it.”

“But you like me, Hugh, don’t you?”

Gregg crossed to her chair and bent to kiss her cheek.

“Good-night, Lyde. Yes, I like you very much. I hope the children are in bed?” this with a trace of anxiety.

“My dear man, what are you thinking of? Home at such an hour as this? I should say not. There was dancing after the music and I stayed on a while for it, but Dame and Pyth were for going on forever, so I tucked Dame under Laura Ely’s wing and came home.” Here Mrs. Gregg yawned, then added, “I don’t suppose they’ll be here before five o’clock.”

Hugh Gregg, his hand on the door-knob, looked down at his feet a little miserably. His eyes were heavy, the muscles of his face sagged with weariness.

“Going the pace, aren’t they?” he commented grimly.

“Yes. Pyth said to me yesterday in that quaint way of his, ‘Mother, Dame and I are getting a little wild, you know. At least they say so,’” and she laughed a long, low laugh of pure amusement, then murmured to herself as she heard her husband’s footsteps ascending the stair:

“Poor old Hugh! Brought up on Watts’ hymns and ‘Line upon Line’!”

Then slipping suddenly from her luxurious nook she stepped to the door and called:

“Hugh! I want to tell you something.”

“All right. Go ahead. Make it a paragraph.”

“I am almost sure Laura Ely is going to let me plan the decorations for her new house.”

“Is that so? That is mighty nice. Now don’t make it too hedonish——” Gregg broke off, then added, “I mean heathenish, Lyde. I’m so sleepy I can’t talk straight.”