Читать книгу Long Storm - Ernest Haycox - Страница 6

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WHEN Musick left the Barnes's house he paused on the porch a moment to turn his coat collar; a cloud, more heavily swollen than usual, burst above the town and the wind-whipped rain came down upon the housetops with such force that it sounded like fine gravel being flung out of the sky. His usual way took him up Seventh Street, but he had a chore to do before he paid Edith Thorpe his customary call and so he walked down Pine's black gut, literally pushing his way through a wall of weather. House lights were early dying and eave and wall and roof poured steady sheets of water upon the walk. He made his way cautiously across the intersection planks; at Fourth he heard some kind of a commotion in front of him—a shout and a running of feet and a challenge. Out of this entire blackness appeared a man who laid the flat of a hand roughly against Musick. "Who are you?"

"Musick," said Adam, and recognized Marshal Lappeus's voice. "What's up?"

Marshal Lappeus's voice lifted and faded in the great wind's racket. "Pass anybody?"

"No."

"Been a slugging," said Lappeus and moved away.

At Front Street the gas lights made a wan row in the glittering, foggy rush of the rain, and seemed like luminous toy balloons gently swaying. There was little life on the street, even under the shelter of the board awnings; citizen and transient alike were indoors, the transients making considerable noise in the saloons as Musick passed them. He crossed at Washington and entered the Pioneer.

"Miss Rawl?" he asked the desk clerk.

"In One, Captain."

Musick went up the stairs and turned to One, which was the corner room. He knocked and waited, and after some pause he heard a woman's slow voice say: "Come in." He opened the door and stepped through. She was accustomed to men, of course; the entertaining of men in one town or another and in one mining camp or another was her business. Nevertheless he left the door slightly ajar behind him as he removed his hat and made his bow. "Miss Rawl," he said, "I am Adam Musick, Captain of the Daisy McGovern. You and your company are going to The Dalles tomorrow on the Julia. I'd like to persuade you to change to our boat."

She had apparently been resting; she had the air of having roused herself from half a sleep as she stood across the room from him. She was small and a little older than he had expected, and she was plainly tired. Her eyes were large and her face expressive enough, but loose in repose. She apparently thought him safe, for she said: "Please close the door. There's a draft."

"I regret I missed your performance at Dennison's."

"I had thought, from the crowd," she murmured, "every man in town must have been there."

"The Daisy leaves at seven-twenty. We connect at Cascades Portage with a middle-river boat. You will get to The Dalles as quickly with us as with them."

"They were kind enough to take care of all arrangements."

He smiled, and the smile gave him an entirely different appearance. "Naturally they'd be kind. It is to their advantage to have you on the Julia. Properly advertised it will give them a full boat tomorrow."

"That is a compliment, isn't it?" she said. "Would you have a full passenger list if I went on your boat?"

"That's it."

"You are nice. You are honest. But do you understand that our passage is free on the Julia? That counts a great deal with actors."

"It would be equally free on the Daisy." said Adam. "How many are in your party?"

"Seven." She had been polite and perhaps idly curious; but in watching him and listening to him she seemed to acquire some amount of interest. "Business is always sharp, isn't it? But if you are the captain, why is it your concern? It is your agent's business, isn't it, or your owner's?"

"Four of us own the Daisy and we furnish whatever competition the monopoly has."

"Is it hard?" she asked, and then he saw her interest grow.

"It is a matter of considerable work," he said, "and some wits."

"Well, Captain," she said, "I know about work and wits, too. I shall be glad to take the Daisy." Her face lifted from its weariness and became somewhat lively. "If you do not fill your boat it will be a reflection on my drawing power, won't it?"

"It will be filled," he said. He stood with his back to the door, hearing water from his hat and coat drip steadily on the room's carpet. "These men out here, uprooted from their people, are lonely. Maybe you don't know the extent of that loneliness."

She ceased to smile, but the following expression had an effect which came across the room to him. He felt it and was stirred by it. "We are all lonely, Captain."

"I'll see that your luggage goes aboard, and I'll have somebody here in the morning to take care of you."

He opened the door; half through it he turned to smile at her and he saw, that she was still interested. She had her head slightly tipped and her lips were pleasantly formed. "It will be a nice trip, Captain. Good night."

He went down the stairs and saw Billy Gattis coming from the saloon with a tray of lunch. He said, "Wait a minute, Billy," and brought the boy to a stop. Billy's too-wise, too-sober face lifted and he said, "Yes, sir," and waited.

"When you get through with that chore," said Musick, "run around to the saloons and ask them to soap on their back bar mirrors the announcement that Miss Rawl and her troupe will go upriver on the Daisy in the morning."

The wind, when he left the Pioneer, was a shrill yell around the town's housetops, and the wind sent great waves of rain along a street turned into a running creek.. At the corner of Yamhill he saw Phoebe McCornack and Perry Judd, mate of the Claire, standing in the sheltered doorway of Oare's Restaurant, both laughing at the weather. He paused a moment, made unexpectedly hungry by the fragrant odors coming out of Oare's.

"If you wait for this to clear up," he said, "you'll be here all night."

The two seemed to find the remark amusing; they were a happy couple and everything pleased them. They made one of the nicest stories in Portland, these two, always together and always contented. Judd looked toward the girl and he said: "That would be hard luck, wouldn't it?" She said: "Would it?" And then both of them forgot Musick. He grinned and went on, knowing he was wholly outside their world. They didn't need him, they didn't need anybody else. It was a fine thing to see.

He walked west on Yamhill. The gas lamps died behind him and he was alone in Yamhill's vaporous gloom, the store lights and the house lights making no impression on the night. Portland was a shelter in which five thousand people enjoyed their warmth and thought themselves secure. In that they were mistaken. The seas could rise, the wind could grow and the earth open up—and then what good were man's feeble little mounds of wood and brick, or his engines, his gold, his pictures and books and fireplaces?

I'm in a low state, he thought.

He had reached the part of town in which the better houses sat on their block squares, fenced around by pickets; he turned through a gate and walked toward the Victorian front of the Thorpe house whose angular house edges reminded him of a homely, passionless widow. He knocked at the door and stamped the mud and water from his feet until Edith Thorpe came to the door.

She said, with some coolness, "When nine o'clock came, I gave you up."

He swept his hat in a half circle to remove the water from it, and stepped into the comfortable front room to find that the other visitors had preceded him—Elijah Gorman apparently to talk a little business with Thomas Thorpe, and Mott Easterbrook who was faithfully making. his usual evening tour. These two spoke to him and he answered and afterwards he made a bow to the family proper—to Grandmother Thorpe who sat shadowed in the room's corner, to Mrs. Thorpe who gave him an absent-minded nod, to William Thorpe whose teeth flashed white behind a cropped and curly beard.

"I hear," Mr. Thorpe said, "Webley was in no shape to eat his supper tonight."

"We put him to bed," said Musick.

From his station in the center of the room, Musick saw Grandmother Thorpe bend with interest, and he observed Mrs. Thorpe's glance of dignified warning go to Grandmother. Grandmother sat back with a gesture of repressed impatience.

"What started him off?" asked Gorman.

"Why," broke in Easterbrook, "he had his dry spell and now has to have his wet spell." He grinned at Musick, and let the smoke of his cigar trail upward across the light ruddiness of his face and across the blue eyes which were usually amused and never troubled. He strained himself at nothing, not even at his pursuit of Edith. Courtship to Mott was a parlor game which had its rules; among the genteel, the rules had to be followed.

Gorman said: "I see you've got some freight on the dock. You'll get it no farther than the portage. The Navigation Company has got stuff stacked up there an acre deep. If Ruckle or Bradford can't get our freight over the portage road, how do you expect to get yours over?"

"Shipper's risk. I tell them all that. Don't you?"

Gorman said: "They know that without being told." He had a smooth face except for slight whiskers along the edge of his jaws; he was genial in this company, but it was a genialness stiffened by an extraordinary character. He was another New Englander who, coming to a new community for the chances it offered, had seized his chances and meant never to let them go. He was one of the driving forces behind the Navigation Company; by patience or power or subtlety, whichever best suited, he and his partners had joined the individual river-boat owners into one group and the group had become a monopoly which, fattened by the traffic to the upriver mines, was on the way to great wealth. Other rivermen, competing for this traffic, had been bought out: or frozen out by a sudden cut in fares and freight rates which they could not long afford; and Musick well understood that he could be likewise frozen out. But Mr. Gorman and his partners, always quick to discern any possible threat to the Navigation Company, appeared to see no risk in permitting the Daisy McGovern to profit by the overflow traffic which the company could not handle.

"You'll do well all summer," said Gorman, "the traffic won't stop." Then, in a display of interest, he said: "Lay your money by. There'll be other ventures. I hope you're thinking of them now."

"Yes."

"Solid ventures, I hope," said Mr. Gorman flicking Musick with his glance.

"Yes," said Musick, and added nothing to that.

William Thorpe was a quiet spectator and Mott Easterbrook sat back in his chair with amused comprehension. They realized, Musick observed, that he was playing his little stack of chips against Mr. Gorman's formidable strength; for that matter, Mr. Gorman understood it too.

"That's good," said Mr. Gorman. "There is fortune here for everybody, but everybody won't get fortune. There is a good deal of nonsense abroad about equality. You can't give eyes to the blind or energy to the weak."

"True, so far as it goes," said Musick. "But even the blind have got to eat and the weak have got the votes to destroy you any time they wish."

Mr. Gorman straightened, for this touched his basic beliefs. "Then who will build and risk and make the cities and create the trade? It is no good to cry at the fortunes which the able make for themselves. That's why the able work and thereby create better times for everybody."

"Better times never reach everybody," said Musick.

"They will not save, they will not work. If a man spends his wages at Dennison's every night, who should cry about that except himself?" He slapped both palms against his knees as though the subject irritated him. "It is Cain and Abel again. The argument never ends."

"Cain," said Musick, "would have enjoyed Dennison's."

Mrs. Thorpe softly said: "Politics is not a good after-dinner subject."

Somebody's boots tramped up the steps of the Thorpe house and somebody's knuckles vigorously rapped the door. Mr. Thorpe rose to answer it, and a vague face showed through the doorway. "I should like to speak a moment, privately, to Mr. Gorman." Mr. Gorman rose and walked to the porch.

Edith's voice came from the kitchen. "I've got coffee for you, Adam."

He went into the kitchen and watched her step behind him and close the door. "You should not bait Mr. Gorman. It is like the little boy teasing the tiger. You look very tired. Why didn't I see you yesterday evening?"

"Had to work on the Daisy's engines."

She searched the cupboard for a saucer and cup, poured his coffee and found him sugar. Knowing his tastes, she offered him no cream. "You troubled Mr. Gorman with your talk. Papa says Mr. Gorman can starve you out any time. You should not risk it."

"He won't do it now," said Musick. "The company's got more business than it can handle. All we take is the overflow. It is a matter of profit. Mr. Gorman is very practical when it comes to profit."

"Papa says he could stop you another way. He could have the Bradfords and Mr. Ruckle refuse to let your passengers go over their portage roads to the middle river."

"They're in it for money, too. The more traffic, the more profit. They will not shut off the dollars."

"Mr. Gorman might persuade them."

Edith was repeating her father's views, and her father was close enough to Mr. Gorman to know what the latter thought. Adam drank his coffee down. "What else does Mr. Gorman think?"

"Papa says Mr. Gorman thinks you very clever, but that he always watches clever men when they are competing against the Navigation Company."

She was not entirely pleased with him; she liked dignity and she liked manners, and he knew it troubled her to have him appear here dressed in his wet work clothes. Her people would no doubt call her attention to the difference between his appearance and Mott Easterbrook's.

He said: "I'm sorry I look like a laboring man. It has been a long day."

"I said nothing about that, Adam."

She wore a new dove gray dress from Mrs. English's dressmaking shop. It was firm around her shoulders and drew discreet attention to her breasts. Her face was smooth and perhaps would always hold its smoothness, for she had her mother's evenness of temper. What she most wanted was a house standing on its square block somewhere in this part of town, with all the security and pleasantness it meant. She disliked intemperate emotions and once when he had kissed her with considerable roughness she had sharply rebuked him. "Don't bring Front Street up here, Adam! You're not a miner off the boat hunting for a woman!" He unsettled her, and she hated to be unsettled. Now and then he thought he had wakened some feeling in her which she wished let alone.

"What is it, Adam?" she asked, showing some impatience at his silence.

"Too much work today. I guess it's time I went to bed."

"What did you mean when you said that you and Lily put her father to bed?"

"I put him to bed," he said, knowing what was in her mind.

"It sounded differently, as you originally said it."

The materials for quarrel were all here, his own weariness, her resentment, and the mention of Webley Barnes. This was his woman, The long days he put in were for her, for the house she wanted and for the way of living she wanted. Her wishes kept him at his chores and made him discount these moments when, tired of work, doubt came upon him. Yet here they were, Edith and he, looking at each other as strangers. He said: "Good night," and turned away.

"It isn't late."

"I don't want to play a game of endurance with Mott tonight. He's fixed for a long stay."

Her head lifted, the corners of her mouth deepened. "Is it necessary for you to lodge with the Barneses? It is not a conventional family."

"When you speak of sin, don't be delicate. Use the words you're thinking of."

He turned away, but her voice swung him back. She was watching him as if she wondered what she must say to erase the unpleasantness of the moment. Her will was strong enough to make it difficult for her to bend, but she put away her resentment and smiled, and in the smile he saw the charm which had always drawn him toward her.

"Well, Adam," she murmured, "we've had our quarrel. Let's not stay angry."

He put both arms around her and kissed her. The edges of her lips were firm when he kissed her, neither opening nor softening for him; she was conceding just enough to forgive him for his rudeness but not enough to match the feeling lying within him. Her body had its resistance, its fear of what might happen; it was a barrier between them which he hated, and therefore he held her lips until he felt the resistance leave her. Then he stepped away.

There was a cloudiness in her eyes. She looked away from him, drawing a deep breath. "You shouldn't have done that. I don't know what to think of you, or of myself. I think you have lived too hard and rough a life."

He had broken through her reserve, and this she disliked. She had meant to close the evening gracefully, to erase the odd antagonism between them; she had not intended to mean more by her kiss. It was to have been a small gift, a half promise, a way of making him anxious to come again tomorrow night. Well, maybe he was wrong, Maybe he was Front Street destroying a fineness he could not understand.

"When," he said, "does a kiss turn from proper to improper?"

"Adam, let's not discuss it."

The evening was ending as so many other evenings had ended. She had drawn away. She was watching him with a restored certainty, and seemed to disapprove of that which he offered.

He said, "Good night," and turned from her.

"You must be more diplomatic, Mr. Gorman is very powerful. He can do you much good or harm. He likes flattery. All powerful men do. You must be agreeable to him. It is so simple."

He returned to the front room. Mr. Gorman, having finished his interview with the messenger on the wet and windy porch, now stood with his back to the room's stove, his hands holding up the tails of his coat. The messenger's news had ruffled him and though he smiled at Adam, it was more the wry smile of a man who had found himself bilked.

"Understand you are taking Miss Rawl and her troupe upriver."

"Seems to have been promptly advertised."

"Was it the lady's own choice?"

"Yes," said Adam, returning the smile in better measure, "after the matter was presented to her."

"You work fast," said Mr. Gorman, "It will of course fill your boat."

"I expect so," assented Adam.

The Thorpes listened with interest and Edith's face mirrored strong disapproval. In the background Mott Easterbrook was once more an amused spectator.

"I admire resourcefulness," said Mr. Gorman. "Up to a degree."

"To what degree?" asked Musick.

"A man must learn what is wise and what is unwise," said Mr. Gorman.

"A study of the Navigation Company," said Adam, "seems to show that anything is wise if it works." He bowed to the people around him and left the house. He realized he had stung Mr. Gorman, When the polished manners were scraped aside, it became evident that Gorman was like the roustabouts who worked for him; he would fight rough-and-tumble and he had no liking for defeat. Musick smiled into the rain-gorged night and felt much better than when he had stepped into the Thorpe house. A little taste of action sweetened the end of a long day.

Easterbrook and Mr. Gorman presently left, and somewhat later Mr. Thorpe rose and went upstairs to his bed. A great change came over the three women as soon as his upper door closed; it was as if they had each a life and an interest which could at last be brought into the open. Grandmother came from the corner shadows and took the chair Thorpe had vacated. Mrs. Thorpe dropped the last pretense of mending and lifted her face toward Edith.

"Did you quarrel with Adam?"

"I am never sure how I ought to manage him."

"Promise a little," said Mrs. Thorpe, "but not too much. Then he will respect you. A woman must not destroy the ideal of purity she represents to a man."

"Ah," said Grandmother, "that is so silly. I never taught you that, Gertrude. You've been married so long that you don't understand men any more."

Mrs. Thorpe said: "There was a period of silence in the kitchen. I hope you didn't let him kiss you. Never let a man taste his delights before marriage."

"Oh, foo, foo," said Grandmother.

"I wished to punish him for being late," said Edith. "It didn't help. I let him kiss me, to make up."

Grandmother stared at Edith in her bright, warm manner. "You're too cold. If I were your age, I'd have that young man crazy wild."

Mrs. Thorpe protested. "Don't speak like that. A man has to be brought out of his baser nature. It is what he expects. He looks to a woman for it. She must not be unproper."

"Ah," scoffed Grandmother, "there is no such thing, in love."

"Mother," said Mrs. Thorpe, "you must not say that. You really must not."

Grandmother's face was coarse and warm with the memories of her early days. "We have become well-to-do people. The well-to-do always forget what things are like. When I was young we had nothing. When I met Jake, he had nothing. So we weren't ashamed of anything. Some ways he was a thoroughly bad man. I always had to be on guard against him. But I kept him busy every minute. I never let him go. Men are savages, so they are. But women are no better. A woman wants a man, and she wants him the same way he wants her."

"You shouldn't speak of your past," said Mrs. Thorpe. "You were wild."

"Had the best time ever," said Grandmother. "I'd of turned from Jake in a minute if he hadn't had what I wanted. He'd of turned from me if I hadn't been what he wanted. We had to stay together, even when we hated each other. Well, if you're cold, Edie, you're like to get Mott Easterbrook. My, my!"

Mrs. Thorpe said, "I prefer Mott."

"That Adam's got the devil in him," said Grandmother.

"I'm not cold," said Edith, quite suddenly.

"Then you're afraid."

Mrs. Thorpe rose and gave Grandmother a killing glance. "Edith is not a Siwash woman, waiting to give herself away to the first man who comes along the trail."

Grandmother's knowing smile remained. She watched Mrs. Thorpe climb the stairs, and then she turned her attention back to Edith, her moist bright eyes running over the girl's shape. "You've got a good figure. A man ought to look more than once. You should see to it that he wants to look more than once. A woman oughtn't fight against a man when he wants too much. She should make him fight against himself. You put your body against him when he kissed you?"

Edith's glance wavered. She looked at the floor her breath running faster. But her color did not deepen, Grandmother observed. There was no blush of modesty from this Edith who was supposed to be a modest girl. Grandmother launched her pointed question: "You got desire, Edie?"

"A woman has her nature to fight against. It's dangerous to let a man rouse her."

"Always dangerous to be alive," said Grandmother. "You won't be safe till you're dead. But dead's dead, and what good is it? You'll be in the mud with your man a lot of the time. That's better than being nowhere." She sat still with her thin hands lying upward on her lap, a very old woman who had not grown mellow. Grandmother had seen the devil and knew him well, and sometimes had loved the odor of brimstone which surrounded him; she hated age and was vainly proud of her lusty youth and never wanted to forget it. Life had meant so much to her that she still grew warm at the mention of the town's scandal. So she watched the strained attention on her granddaughter's face and the cloudiness in her granddaughter's eyes.

Edith suddenly said: "I wonder if I'm a bad woman?"

Grandmother got up from her chair and made her pointed remark.

"Good or bad, a woman wasn't born to be wasted. Anything's better than nothing."