Читать книгу The High Way - Caroline Atwater Mason - Страница 7

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At six o’clock on that same evening Mrs. Douglas Gregg was wheeled into the dining-room of the drab-coloured house on Locust Street by the family servant, Kate Quinlan, who had supported her in the great adventure of descending the stairs from her chamber. Despite the fact of almost lifelong invalidism Mrs. Gregg’s face was fair and unlined as the face of a child. Her dark eyes were merry; certain delightful dimples about her mouth as they came and went made a pleasant appeal. Her hands were white and smooth, and her round figure, gowned in purple silk, was altogether pleasing. But as she sat in her wheeled chair Mrs. Gregg was now considering the table before her with a serious and appraising eye. There was the gleaming damask cloth which she recognized as her best, accordingly correct for the occasion. There was the treasured set of old Wedgewood china also; and Kate had not forgotten to bring down the vase of enormous pink roses which had come in the morning from the florist’s with a card inscribed “With Hugh’s and Lydia’s love.” Beside her husband’s plate lay, as directed, the treatise on New Testament Sociology, long since ordered for him and kept hidden in her own desk. This reminded her of something not in evidence.

“Kate!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, Mrs. Gregg.” The maid was elderly, angular, drab-coloured like the house, but the eyes of her were unto the hand of her mistress unmistakably.

“Have you remembered Mr. Gregg’s present to me?”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Gregg. It is right here,” and Kate laid her hand on a flat box on the sideboard. “Shall I bring in the supper now? I hear the Doctor coming.”

As she spoke Professor Gregg entered the dining-room, crossed to his wife’s side, gave her a kiss, exclaimed at the pleasure of her appearance down-stairs and attempted to adjust the clumsy chair. Then, for the first time he became aware of the gala aspect of the table. At the same moment Kate appeared bearing a lordly dish of fried chicken, a flush of triumph on her face.

“Why, what is all this about, Rose?” he questioned, perplexity on his face.

“Our day, love! December fifth! You’ve gone and forgotten again! But never mind. Do sit down while the chicken is hot, and be sorry afterwards. And not too sorry either!” This with a smile across the table as she bent her head for the blessing.

“But where—but what—oh, Rose! I’m afraid I haven’t any present for you,” murmured the Professor, as he raised his head. “How ever have you stood such an absent-minded beggar all these years?”

“Cease to mourn. You attended to that all right two weeks ago, Douglas. Why should you remember? Something perfectly lovely I know is in that box over there. Katie has had a hard time keeping it hidden from my insatiable curiosity. Do bring it to me now. I can’t wait another minute!” and she nodded with spontaneous gaiety to Kate who at once placed the box in Dr. Gregg’s hand. With lifted eyebrows and a humorous pursing of the lips he gazed upon its contents.

“You can hardly be more surprised, my dear Mrs. Gregg, than I am as I present you with this—article,” he commented. “What is it, Katie? I take it to be a ‘tidy.’”

“If you please, Dr. Gregg, it is a lace collar, and perhaps it would do to put it on right away—to celebrate.”

“Exactly my idea,” responded the master of the house. In another moment the invalid was adorned with the really beautiful lace, fastened with roses from the bowl on the table. All was accomplished with delicate dexterity by the slender, blue-veined hands of the old scholar. When done he saluted his wife as his bride, ruler of his house and of his heart, lo, these six-and-forty years! The last point was confirmed by a questioning glance at Kate and an answering nod, gaily observed by Mrs. Gregg.

“‘My love looks like a girl to-night,’” Douglas Gregg remarked, fixing his gravely smiling regard upon his wife’s face, his seat opposite her resumed.

“‘But she is old,’” was the quick response, pronounced with a faint echo of the passion and pathos which welled up irresistibly in both their hearts at that moment. “Now we must cut out all this youthful nonsense and eat our supper. It looks to me as if Katie had surpassed herself.”

Unshed tears were in the eyes of both as they turned to the simplicities of their anniversary feast, for the question could not be escaped, Would there be more days like this? Would there be even one?

The supper over, a Bible was brought to the Professor by Kate who, with obviously reddened eyes and nose, took her seat in a straight chair very near the door leading to the kitchen, thus indicating her sense of her own place. The master of the house pushed his armchair away from the table and began turning over the leaves of the book, vaguely seeking for an appropriate passage. His wife broke in with her whimsical laugh.

“Now, Douglas, please remember the Saturday night cotter, and ‘wale a portion with judicious care.’ Don’t read an imprecatory psalm as you did on our anniversary last year. I like John’s Gospel myself, whoever wrote it.”

His eyes flashed their smile to hers. A moment later he began reading the twelfth chapter of John’s Gospel. Of this he read twenty-five verses, then kneeling he offered a simple prayer of praise for the past and trust for the future.

Hardly had he risen from his knees when the sound of the door-bell was heard. Kate hastened from the room, and after wheeling his wife into the adjoining parlour—for the Greggs’ house was constructed before living-rooms came in fashion and had suffered no change—he left her for the study to which he was called.

“Who was it, Katie?” asked her mistress.

“A young gentleman, one of the students, ma’am. He gave his name as Graves. A Junior I should take him to be since I never set eyes on him before. The Doctor told me he was like to have a call by appointment the minute supper was over.”

“I hope the man won’t stay very long—not to-night, you know, Katie.”

Mrs. Gregg had hardly spoken before a spasm of pain passing over her face gave warning that it was time for the return to her own room. With practised motions Kate assisted her to mount the stairs, then spent half an hour in minute preparations for the night’s rest. This accomplished, leaving Mrs. Gregg merry and cosey in bed, Kate hurried down to her work in the kitchen.

Just before eight o’clock the door of the study opened and Dr. Gregg ushered his departing visitor into the hall. The young man’s face was curiously sullen, his movements abrupt and uncertain as if he were dazed by physical pain.

“Above all, my dear Graves,” the Professor was saying on a peculiarly quiet and kindly note, “remember what I observed just now. We all go through experiences like this. They pass and we do not find that we are undone, or our life purposes revolutionized. Adjustment to these conditions is apt to be a painful process to a thinking man, but it belongs to the period of development which we have reached.”

“Yes,” muttered the student harshly, “but if adjustment means compromise—deadly compromise——” he broke off.

“Ah, you are carrying things to extremes,” interposed Gregg. “Compromise is not in question. What strikes you as such is in reality the intellectual inconvenience of adjusting one’s self to a broad horizon after having one’s life bounded by a narrow arc,—comparatively so, I mean.”

“May I ask where Foreign Missions come in, or rather where they come out?” returned Graves, something approaching a sneer on his lip.

“Foreign Missions, truly conceived, suffer in no way by the wider view,” was Gregg’s somewhat stern reply. “Truth can never suffer from truth, Mr. Graves.”

“Oh, I perceive!” Graves spoke with a touch of sarcasm. They had now reached the outer door, but, as he laid his hand on the latch, the door was opened from without. Hardy Shannon came in. Hasty greetings were exchanged, then the door closed on Graves. Shannon proceeded to remove his overcoat which, as one familiar with the house, he hung on the old-fashioned mahogany rack with pegs and small oval mirror, standing by the parlour door.

Into this room Dr. Gregg drew his acting secretary, giving for reason that it was a festa and they must not be in a hurry to go to work. A certain camaraderie was at once perceptible between professor and student as they sat down together, camaraderie strong enough to survive the cold comfort of the room, expressionless because so little used, also because of the presentation silver on the mantel, the austerity of haircloth-covered furniture, closed fireplace and cold hearth.

As Hardy Shannon started to offer his congratulations another invasion of 17 Locust Street was effected, this time a lively and chattering invasion. For in poured, rather than walked, the Gregg twins, Walter and Dorothy, bearing gifts for their grandparents. At once they launched into eager, emphatic explanations of the reasons why their parents could not possibly come to bring their own greetings.

They were youngsters of sixteen, dark-haired, bright-eyed; the boy tall and graceful, the girl daintily pretty. Both were amazingly sure of themselves, full of effervescent and almost bewildering enthusiasm for all which appertained to their ancestors.

Dorothy, generally known as Dame, after the froth of this enthusiasm had blown off, settled herself to a miniature flirtation with Shannon, while her brother engaged Professor Gregg in discussion of the war. A sortie to the second story to visit Mrs. Gregg was shortly effected, after which the young visitors took their leave, sorely, it seemed, against their will, Dame declaring she “just wished they could spend the whole evening there, it was so lovely and restful.”

Once outside and the door closed upon them, she took her brother’s hand, remarking:

“We pulled that off pretty well, I think myself. Now let’s scoot back to the club and have a little fun.”

“What did you make of the theologue?” her brother asked. “Good-looking chap, what?”

“Oh, he can have me! He is a thoroughbred all right. Nancy had him in tow to-night, don’t you know? If I had dared I should have told him it was we who made that coffee for him. If he only keeps on coming to the Mortals I shall get him to let me teach him to dance.”

Laughing they ran on down the street.

The two men left behind had a sensation as if silence “like a poultice” had fallen to “heal the wounds of sound.” Professor Gregg looked dizzy. As for Shannon, realizing by this time that the twins were identical with the figures which he had vaguely and from a distance observed earlier in the evening, he still found himself unable to shake off the impression that they were marionettes,—neat, mechanical figures pulled by rather obvious strings. Certainly something ephemeral, futile seemed to belong to them. Pausing before the parlour door the Professor consulted his watch, then with finality exclaimed:

“Come, Shannon, let us retreat to the citadel and let the portcullis fall. I think we are safe now.”

He led the way to the study where was a dying hearth fire. Soon flames were roaring up chimney and two shabby but comfortable easy chairs were drawn up.

“Let the typewriter have a rest for to-night,” said the Professor. “We have had sound and fury enough. I want a little silence and a chance to talk with you.”

Hardy Shannon responded with a look which said plainly, “I am honoured; I am fortunate; also I am mighty glad to-night to loaf instead of to work.”

It was a rare honour for a Seminary student, above all for a Junior, to be challenged to an hour of personal intercourse with Douglas Gregg. The youth felt this and keenly.

For this elderly scholar and gentleman, Christian minister and teacher, had held for many years a position of unique and potent influence in the religious world. Not only within his own denominational limit, but among men of most varying creeds and positions, his name had become an authority. What was more, to a far larger degree than was as yet recognized, he had moulded the thinking of the rising generation. If primarily exerted within the ranks of the ministry his influence was felt in increasing measure among the laity.

It had been something of an event when Hardy Shannon could write to his father and mother that Douglas Gregg had chosen him to help him in the work of copying and preparing for the press the latest, and perhaps the last, of the series of his books. But what this privilege was to bring in its train was beyond their purview or his. This much was obvious and welcome:—a relation bordering on intellectual and personal friendship already existed between the famous scholar and the youthful student.

As he looked across at the older man, sitting relaxed and silent by the fireside, Hardy Shannon was pierced by a sudden perception of his peculiar loneliness. The visit of his only son’s only son and daughter had perceptibly served to strike this note.

“I have really had no chance, sir,” he said with sudden access of diffidence, “to express my congratulations on this great day for you and Mrs. Gregg.”

“Yes, a great day, indeed,” the Professor replied musingly. “My marriage day brought me the chief blessing of my life,

“‘—the flower of Peace,

The Rose that cannot wither,

My fortress and my ease.’”

He quoted the lines with a tender smile in his own liberty. “Don’t make a mistake when you choose a girl for your wife, Shannon, for she will hold your future in her hands far more than you ever can hold hers.”

Shannon did not reply. Before he could construct an answer sufficiently impersonal to suit him on a theme so personal Gregg had taken another line.

“You know Graves, the fellow you met here as you came in this evening? He is in your class.”

“Yes, I know him slightly. I am almost too busy to know any of the fellows as much as I want to.”

“Yes, I am afraid you are too busy since Chance and I both got after you. About Graves. He is having an awful time,—a perfectly awful time.”

“What about?”

“Oh, the Virgin Birth, the nature of Christ, the origins of Old Testament religion, the authorship of the books, what he is to do with Moses, how many Isaiahs there were,—all the usual symptoms. The entering class has an epidemic of this distemper every year at about this time.”

“I know,” Shannon rejoined soberly, “that some of the fellows get awfully worried.”

“Of course they do. And it is quite possible that Graves takes the results of modern scholarship a little harder because of his missionary purpose. I have noticed this before in one or two cases. But it is a passing phase. Candid students become reconciled to the necessary changes of attitude in due time. We are sending out some fine fellows to the foreign field. Did you ever happen to know Dalrymple? or know of him?”

“I have heard my father speak of him favourably. I know he considers him among the ablest men our Board has sent out.”

A quiet smile of gratification could be seen on the old Professor’s face.

“Oh, yes, Tom Dalrymple was, in many respects, the strongest man we have graduated in ten years. It was about seven years ago that he went to India. He is a Modernist in the best sense. A thorough and fearless scholar.”

“He is doing good work out there?”

“Admirable. We get the best reports. His is a case in point. But the average Junior can’t grasp it at first. You see, these men come to the Seminary almost from their mother’s knee, and when they meet the results of scientific study of the Christian system, why, they are up against it, and pretty seriously so, too, sometimes. How is it you never seem to get worried, Shannon? I am rather disappointed in you.”

“You expected me to be a bad case, did you, sir?”

“Well, yes, considering probabilities of your bringing up. Your father is counted rather conservative.”

“‘Rather’ is not too strong. The winds even of heaven must not visit my father’s orthodoxy too roughly. We would no more speak of any result of Biblical criticism in his presence than we would swear. Simply, it is not done.”

“Yes, I can imagine that it would be like that. There are not many men of his stripe left now, but a few of our best and most effective pastors, I know, regard silent ignoring of the present movement as the only way to frown it down.”

“It was a difficult thing, sir, for my mother and me to persuade my father to let me come to Peterboro for my divinity course.”

“Your mother?” Gregg repeated with surprise. “Then she does not follow your father entirely? She is not alarmed by the search for truth?”

“My mother has always been in the way of thinking for herself,” Shannon replied quietly. “She does so in matters of religion, but she does it in a way to alarm nobody, not even herself. And, as you were saying of the fellows, it is from my mother’s knee that I have come.”

There was a little pause in their talk. Gregg’s eyes were drawn narrowly as if he were seeking to summon back something long forgotten.

“I have a vague remembrance of your mother—as a girl—Shannon,” he commented slowly. “I saw her once in Melrose, at the parsonage, long ago. Not many years, I should think, after her marriage. And she had eyes like yours,—the expression was the same.”

In the silence which followed the eyes of the old man scanned the face of the youth with sober, measuring scrutiny.

“What if——” here he broke off; then, taking up the word again with sudden decisiveness, “what if you, Hardy Shannon, were to be the man to follow me here in the Seminary,—a man like-minded with myself,—one whom I could, in a way, train to take up the work and carry it on in the same spirit, towards the same end?”

“If you knew me better, sir, I fear you would not do me the honour to think of me in such a connection.” Hardy Shannon hesitated long before replying and his voice trembled perceptibly when he spoke. Was not this his great moment?

“Ah! you have then perhaps a dark past?” Douglas Gregg laughed lightly. “You do not look it. Do you think it would be safe for me to listen to the story of it? I have experience as Father Confessor. Go on.”

They both laughed then. The tension was broken. The Professor rose, put another stick on the fire, then leaning back in his armchair, putting his finger tips together, he remarked, with ironic emphasis:

“Now we are ready for the worst.”