Читать книгу There are Victories - Charles Yale Harrison - Страница 15

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Once again the last few remaining patches of snow, hidden in the crevices on the sides of the mountain, had melted; once again the March slush was converted into running rivulets of brownish gray. April blew and shouted and soon came May, gentle and self-conscious, giving roundness to straight-lined Winter, touching the tips of the budding birch with a suggestion of pale jade and russet-tinting the crisp young leaves of the sturdy red maple. Once again Spring performed her fecund ritual.

From St. Lawrence Boulevard east to proletarian Maisonneuve, little wooden establishments opened and sold spruce beer, liquid tang of the pine forest, and brown crystal cubes of maple sugar. In the Bonsecœur Market in the East End, habitant peasants from the countryside north of the city sold their Spring wares: freshly caught speckled brook trout, maple syrup and square-faced sinister bottles full of purple native port wine. In all parts of town carriages were polished or painted and greased (at first the automobile made little headway against the horse in Canada) and the cutters and sleighs were stored until the following winter; bear skins which covered one during long cold drives were sprinkled with camphor and neatly folded and stored in redolent cedar chests.

Once again Francis Steele’s shining victoria called at the Throops of a sunlit Saturday afternoon and the coachman, tall-hatted and erect, sat motionless on the driver’s seat while his master took his tea within. In the living hall before the curtained entrance which led to the dining room, tea was being served. Mrs. Throop officiated with the grace of a lady but in the spirit of a drill master. The servants performed their duties meticulously but always conscious that madame, despite her quick conversation and fleeting and reappearing smile, was fully aware of the slightest flaw in the service. Tea was a ritual and consisted of the brew and cookies, nothing more. Heavy teas of sandwiches or meat were considered as bordering on Protestantism—it was all right for Methodists or Presbyterians. Near his hostess sat the Bishop (he was French-Canadian and detested tea, and privately said that it was fit only for Englishmen), conversing with a visiting Italian church dignitary who smiled tolerantly when the Bishop expressed the hope that some day he might live to see a French-Canadian Pope.

“There are not many of us to be sure, a few million, but none more devout and loyal to the Church in the whole world,” the Bishop said.

The Italian dignitary, a little wiry man with quick nervous gestures, agreed and remarked that that was the reason the Eucharistic Congress was to be held in Montreal the following year.

“The Holy Father knows, he knows,” the papal emissary said, nodding his head.

Near the window looking out on the front lawn, stood Major Throop, disconsolate in the presence of greatness more glittering than his own. In another part of the room were Steele and Ruth and two Franciscan brothers of whom Mrs. Throop was fond and whom she invited to tea every Saturday. They returned to the monastery with bundles of old clothes, cakes and food which they distributed to the poor. The monks stood awkwardly holding their teacups and nibbled at Mrs. Throop’s dainty cookies and hoped that it would soon be time to go; the elegance of the Throop household disconcerted them and made them feel ill at ease. This sort of thing, one of them said later when they got outside, was all right for the Bishop. Their shaved heads and their sandaled bare feet stood out in contrast to the well-groomed assembly.

“It’s a shame to be indoors on a beautiful day like this,” Steele said to Ruth. “Don’t you think it would be much better to be, let us say, on top of the mountain?”

Ruth agreed and looked apprehensively towards her mother. There was no escaping tea. “I’ve half a mind to ask your mother to let us go for a drive. Would you care to come along?”

“I’d love to, but mother will never consent,” Ruth replied.

“Very well, then,” her uncle said, “we’ll see.”

He moved across the room weaving his way through the guests, past the harassed Franciscan brothers who held empty cups in their hands unhappily, and finally arrived at his sister’s side. He leaned over her shoulder and whispered in her ear. She nodded absently; the visiting dignitary was discussing the possible canonization of two Canadian priests who had been burned to death by the Hurons in the early days of the settlement and Mrs. Throop was engrossed in the narrative. “We shan’t be long,” her brother whispered.

“Be sure and have her back in time for dinner,” Mrs. Throop replied and turned her attention to the Bishop’s remarks, who, while pleased with this papal gesture toward the millions of French-Canadian Catholics, felt that a living native cardinal was better than two dead saints.

“We are poorly represented at Rome, Venerable Brother,” the Bishop said, “not at all commensurate with the piety and works of the Church in Quebec. Our churches, charities and orders are the pride of Catholicism, if I may say so, and exceeded only by our brethren in Mexico. Consider for a moment the shrine at Sainte Anne de Beaupré ...”

Steele returned to his niece’s side, the bearer of glad tidings:

“We may go,” he announced, “and I must have you back by dinner time. You’d better hurry and get your things.”

As they left the room Mrs. Throop shook her finger admonishingly at her brother who waved his hand in reply. In the hallway the two monks stood silently in the corner waiting for Mrs. Throop to find time to give them her offering for the pious and deserving poor.

“Still waiting?” Ruth said to the younger of the two brothers, who blushed and nodded.

Outside, the coachman threw a light covering over Ruth’s knees and set his horses off at a gentle trot in the direction of the mountain. Soon the rubber-tired wheels of the carriage crunched the gravel road which wound its way up the side of the mountain. The late afternoon sun shone brightly and the aimless talk of the pair was punctuated by the clippety-clop of the horses’ hoof-beats. They passed the lookout and proceeded to the woods on the plateau which lay on the side nearest Westmount. Here Steele ordered his coachman to halt. They were at the edge of a dark-green fir forest.

“Shall we walk a bit?” Steele asked. Ruth agreed.

They entered the cool aromatic woods treading silently on the deep carpet of dead brown pine needles. Ruth was quietly happy in the presence of her uncle; to her he was everything that a man should be, everything, for example, that Major Throop was not. He had none of her stepfather’s querulousness, and she saw in his immaculately groomed person the spiritual power of the Church (she did not reason these things but rather felt them), the permanence of Canadian Pacific stocks and bonds, the bulldog stability of the Bank of Montreal. In his booming voice there was the note of authority of the Church, in his square-cut shoulders there was the security of her class. In the heaviness of his watch chain, in the costly ruddiness of his ruby watch charm; in the heavy odor of his shaving lotions (which reminded her in a vague manner of the convent incense and which faintly disturbed her), in the fuzzy sideburns, the cutaway coat, the striped trousers, the deliberate manner of speech—in all these externals she sensed the security of values and social peace, the tranquillity which comes with ownership.

They strolled through lanes of tall pines which lifted their spires towards the sky and shut out the fast-fading sunlight; occasionally a breath of wind stirred the massed needles overhead causing a hushed lament.

“Do you know,” Steele said after they had been walking in silence for some time, “that when I die I am going to make you my heiress—unless, of course, I should marry in the meantime—which is very unlikely.”

“Oh, uncle, you mustn’t talk of dying.”

“Do you think anyone would like to marry an old codger like your uncle?”

“Yes—yes, I should imagine anyone would,” Ruth said, lying. She thought him satisfactory as an uncle but she couldn’t quite imagine anyone loving him—that way.

“Well, I’m afraid I’m not the marrying kind.” He was flattered by the girl’s concern and remarked tritely upon the inevitability of death.

“We must all go sooner or later. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”

“Oh, please, Uncle Francis, let’s not talk of such things on such a beautiful day.”

“Very well, then, let’s talk of what you will do when you will have a great big chunk of my money.”

“I don’t know, really I don’t. I haven’t thought of it.”

“Well, just try and think.”

Ruth walked along by her uncle’s side smiling and thinking. Then, looking up suddenly, she said with bright animation:

“I know. I’d build a great stone mansion somewhere deep in the Laurentians. On top of a mountain, perhaps. Mother and the Major would live with me and I’d have the loveliest girls as servants. Maybe it would be a castle with a keep and a moat and a great living hall with an enormous fireplace large enough to hold half an oak tree at one time. I’d have a chapel built such as we had at the convent and once a week an old priest like Father Boniface would come and say mass for us.”

“No men?” Steele asked laughing.

“No, I hardly think so, not in the beginning, anyhow.”

“Only the priest?”

“Well, later perhaps a knight—but a very polite one and one that had slain at least six dragons.”

“I’m sure,” Steele said, “your stepfather would find that sort of thing very tiring. And what would your mother do without her Saturday teas, for I’m sure the Bishop wouldn’t like to make long, thorny trips to the top of a Laurentian mountain. I know the Bishop!” Then with feigned severity: “You’ll do no such thing with my money, young lady. I demand that you live in my red sandstone house on Sherbrooke Street and that as soon as possible you find yourself a suitable young man—no knights, you’ll have nothing but trouble and sleepless nights with a knight; there’s no telling what a romantic knight may suddenly do—marry him and live happily ever afterwards.”

“Oh, uncle, how tiresome!”

“Not at all. Your practical young husband will go to business every day and you’ll be the mistress of a great house and all the girls in Montreal will envy you. Besides, no intelligent young fellow will want to go and live in a castle on top of a mountain. Of course if your lovely servant maids are beautiful enough that might be an inducement. It would be for me.” He threw his head back and laughed noiselessly.

“Then perhaps,” Ruth said, unaware of the peculiar quality to the man’s laughter (they had been walking some time now and the sun was near the horizon), “I’d travel to break the monotony of castle life. I’d like to go all over the world: India, China, England, France, and Rome. Do you think the Holy Father would receive me? I’d kneel at his feet and kiss the holy ring.”

“In that case,” Steele replied, “you’d have to dress very sedately: a long black dress—I’m sure you’d look very beautiful in it—with long sleeves and a high collar. The Holy Father would be outraged at the sight of the frock you are now wearing.”

He looked sharply at the girl’s gay frock, observing her generous V-cut neck and the outline of her delicate girlish breasts which seemed to press timidly against the soft material of her dress. Then taking her warm hand in his (she felt a sudden chill as he did so), they walked on in silence for several paces. They were now in the heart of the woods, the voices of the Saturday afternoon picnickers were no longer audible. No sound was heard save the whisper of the wind as it moved gently through the heavy boughs overhead. They had been walking for some time (Ruth had forgotten about the waiting coachman) and were tired. They stood now in a cleared space soft with a heavy covering of dead pine needles. Steele paused and drew forth an immaculate stiff white linen handkerchief and patted his damp forehead.

“Whew! It is warm, isn’t it? Shall we sit for a little while?” He found a soft spot at the foot of an old spruce tree and resting his back against it, invited his niece to sit with him. “Here, this is quite comfortable.”

Ruth sank to his side with a graceful curtseying gesture. She rested her head against her uncle’s broad shoulder and closed her eyes; she was tired. Steele slipped his arm about the girl’s waist and she opened her eyes and made a moue of fatigue, smiled and closed them again.

The man ran his hand through his thinnish, graying hair; his head was damp and hot and he leaned back against the rough bark of the tree, inhaling the pungent, pine-scented air. As they sat resting, a vague uneasiness overcame the man. He looked down at the girl resting against his shoulder, and from his vantage point he observed her finely-shaped mouth, the delicate nostrils (tiny amber-white beads of perspiration on her forehead and upper lip) and the even, smooth cleft of her breasts. He smelled the young, sweet fragrance of her body and watched the slow, even rise and fall of her bosom. She had stretched out her long, slender legs and the hem of her skirt, caught by a twig, was above her knee to one side and exposed a vestige of white thigh. A desire to kiss Ruth possessed the man.

——She is a beautiful child. One kiss. To feel her youthful lips—it will be nothing, I promise you, nothing. There is something so life-giving about a young virgin. It would seem that from her lips I might find vigor and youth like the old king who was cold and dying and asked that virgins be brought to his bed.

Steele drew his arm close to himself bringing the girl’s face closer to his. Ruth opened her eyes:

“It is getting dark,” she said; “hadn’t we better be getting back?”

The man ignored her question.

“You are so beautiful, Ruth—will you kiss your favorite uncle?” His voice was hoarse but she did not hear the note, hearing only the words. She held up her lips and the man pressed his close to hers. He held her long, his breath suddenly turned to flame and his body became rigid; with his free hand he found the cool flesh of her thigh and held her close. A few seconds passed and she did not quite understand what was happening. But the hand, which at first seemed to be where it was through sheer accident of posture, continued its way.

She broke free and held her uncle off at arm’s length, breathing with difficulty, now acutely aware (though by instinct only) of what his intentions were and what had transpired.

“Uncle—Uncle Francis—what are you doing?” She stammered when she regained her breath. “What—what——?”

The man was on his feet now, pale and frightened, exercising self-control with the greatest of difficulty.

“Don’t be silly,” he finally managed to say, “don’t be silly.” The words came slowly as though they were being torn from him. “What are you frightened about? I—I merely kissed you. You are a silly little goose.” His voice took on the semblance of color, became less rigid and forced.

Ruth stood before the man with speech frozen in her throat. She wanted to run but her legs had lost their strength. In her throat she felt a sharp pain and her heart thumped madly. Her mind was a confused jumble. Then suddenly she found release in tears. She threw herself on the ground and wept, spasms of sobbing shaking her body.

Steele, alarmed and distracted, lifted her to her feet.

“Here, here, you silly little child, you mustn’t cry. Whatever is the matter with you?”

But the racking sobs continued and she turned her head from him. Then, as conciliatory words were of no avail, he spoke more sternly:

“Stop it, stop, do you hear! Stop it at once! Good heavens, what a fool you are. Stop! It is getting dark and we had better be getting on and I can’t take you back with a face like that.”

——God almighty what a fool I am. Couldn’t wait, eh? Your own niece and a child, you idiot. Why don’t you take a whore? God, I shall never be able to face Elizabeth!

The blackness of the trees, the stillness of the woods now that the sun had disappeared, accentuated the girl’s terror. For a few moments there was an awkward, frightful silence, then as Ruth collected herself she was able to say: “Take me home, please.”

She walked a little behind her uncle as they moved towards the road in search of the carriage; behind her the evening wind began to moan more keenly through the trees. She tried hard to think; she would have to make excuses to her mother (it was now nearly dark), her eyes must be red and her face was surely a sight, she thought. And as she walked she shivered, although the air was still warm. At last they came upon the road and saw the carriage lights which the coachman had lit when the light began to fade.

As they got into the victoria Steele patted Ruth’s limp hand and said:

“You are not to be a silly child, do you hear? You are a woman now and it is time ...” His voice trailed off, leaving the thought incomplete. The expression on the girl’s face frightened him.

As the horses trotted down the mountain road Ruth sat with her eyes fixed straight ahead of her. Her head was hot and ached, her legs seemed stiff and frozen, her heart was a black void. For her a world had ended.