Читать книгу White Banners - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 10

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"Look, Daddy, what a man gave me!" shouted Wallie, from half-way down the stairs. "And Hannah says I mustn't wear it. Can't I, Daddy? Why can't I?"

Paul reluctantly tugged his eyes away from the mechanism he was working on, and said absently, "What y' got there? Oh—you're a Bull Moose, are you?"

Wallie set the gaudy little cap at a rakish angle and hopped up and down, shouting gleefully, "I'm a Bulmus! I'm a Bulmus!"

"You're worse than that. You're a pest. Run along now and play."

"But Hannah says I mustn't wear it."

"Then do as Hannah says."

The lad went sniffling up the stairs and for some minutes could be heard shrilly badgering Hannah. Then the racket subsided, indicating that some sort of agreement had been arrived at. The incident really amounted to nothing, but it excited Paul's curiosity to the extent that he presently found himself wanting a drink of water. National politics had never given him much concern, but he had to admit to himself that this was a bit different. There was a good deal of the sporting in it.

"Hannah," he said, setting down the empty glass on the table where she was at work, "I gather you're not a Bull Mooser."

"Just between us, Mr Ward," she said in an undertone, "I think I am. But we're university, you know, and the large majority of the regents are standpatters. I've been reading that in the papers."

"Well—we've got a right to our private opinions, haven't we?"

"So long as they're private, yes. You can go to the ballot-box in November and do whatever you like. But when your little boy romps up and down the street with a campaign cap on, there's nothing very private about that, is there?"

"Don't you believe in a man's having the courage of his convictions?" asked Paul, making elaborate pretence of moral indignation.

"If you have any—yes. But isn't this just a brawl among rival cliques? We may as well keep out of it, don't you think?"

"But, Hannah!" protested Paul, "you believe in good government?"

"Quite so. But you can't make me believe that anything good can come of organizations that scream at the people and call each other bad names and try to drown out every calm word with a big noise. They're all doing that, which means that they're all wrong. If any one of them was right, it wouldn't have to be done that way."

Paul seated himself astride a chair and lighted a cigarette, squinting against the smoke.

"You're so nearly always right, Hannah, that I don't like to leave you in this deplorable condition. Suppose a group of people who actually knew their theories of government were right and just, and disliked racket, were to sit with folded hands and permit the noise-makers to run the country anyhow they pleased, would you say that was very patriotic?"

"Well—if you ask me, Mr Ward, I think that word 'patriotic' has had a pretty rough time of it. Perhaps you know exactly what it means. I don't. But I do know this: whenever you hear a great lot of noise—bands playing, rockets shooting, and fat men yelling through megaphones, you want to look out, for they're trying to put something over on you. I claim that anybody who really is right and honest can live his whole lifetime without ever raising his voice above the tone of ordinary conversation. When the Truth begins to screech and whack the desk with its fist, it always makes me think of Little Red Ridinghood's long-eared grandmother."

"You may be all wrong this time, Hannah, but you're consistent. I'll say that for you. You're always for non-resistance."

She knew he was teasing her, but ignored his spoofing and carried on as if their talk was wholly serious. "I don't like that word," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe that's what ails this idea—just the dull title the people have for it. You can't blame them much. Nobody should be expected to take much interest in a kind of power whose name begins with 'Non'."

Paul took a turn up and down the little kitchen before replying. "No matter what you call it, Hannah, the name won't help it. It's a dreadfully silly theory. It might seem to work once in a blue moon, but you'd soon be utterly crushed out if you tried to apply it as a principle in business or politics."

She parted her lips to answer, but Paul raised a hand and went on—quite seriously now.

"I know, I know—you have a visionary notion that the meek are going to inherit the earth. It's a pretty thought, especially for the people who haven't very much, like you and me. And perhaps it will all come to pass sometime, but not now; somewhere, but not here. It isn't practical."

Hannah grinned slyly.

"I don't think I'm impractical, Mr Ward. Or, if I am, someone else had better accuse me of it besides you. Fancy you calling me impractical!" They both laughed. It wasn't often that Hannah let herself go in this manner. Customarily her remarks to Paul were phrased in terms of the respect due him as her superior. Occasionally they waived the conventions, by common consent, and indulged in some man-to-man talk. Paul quite liked it.

"And I'm not the sort that sees visions, either," continued Hannah. "I don't take any stock in such things. But I believe that after all the big noises are over, and the pushers and slappers and pounders have mauled one another to a pulp, the meek will inherit the—whatever is left to inherit. But if this idea of waiting in quietness and hope until the things we really ought to have are put into our hands"—there was a momentary pause during which her grey eyes widened and travelled past him as she tried to attach words to her thoughts—"if this idea really has the sort of stuff in it to make it win in the long run, I believe it must have enough soundness in it to work pretty well now for the people who think it's true. My own experiments with it don't amount to much, because I have so little to lose if it doesn't work for me."

"Say that last again, Hannah. I didn't get it."

"I mean—if I had a million, and somebody tried to take it away from me, and I gave in rather than fight, it's natural that I should have more to show for it—if this thing works at all—than I should if someone had stolen my umbrella or my pocket-book which has about nine dollars in it."

"Hannah—that's the biggest lot of nonsense I ever saw heaped up in one pile."

"I think most men would feel that way about it," she admitted. "It's harder for men to let go of things—property, money. Men think of themselves as successful if they have lots of things. Women are always thinking of success as something that makes them admired and liked as persons. That's natural. You watch two small children playing at make-believe. Along comes a stylish woman on a thoroughbred horse. The boys say, 'That's mine!'—meaning the horse; but his little sister says, 'That's me!'—meaning the lady. And as long as they live, he is always saying 'Mine!' and she is saying 'Me!' It isn't much wonder if more women than men catch this idea—this idea about—"

"About personality being more important than property?" suggested Paul, when she seemed to be mired.

"I guess so." Hannah's brows contracted studiously while the blueberries she was cleaning ran for a moment uninspected through her fingers. "I don't know that I ever thought about it just that way. But women are always tinkering with their faces, trying to make themselves over into something more beautiful, because it's a woman's self, after all, that she sets the most store by. A man doesn't try to prettify himself very much, or make himself over to look different. He wants to be important for owning something rather than being something.... I'm afraid I'm not saying this very well.... But, seeing that's the way we're made, it must be pretty hard for a man to let go his grip on things. I've often wondered if farmers didn't hate to bury their good corn and wheat in the dirt when it was always a gamble how much they'd get back."

"Yes"—broke in Paul—"but that is quite a different matter from letting someone make off with your property because you haven't courage enough to press your rightful claim to it. This soft theory that invites a second slap in the face, and hands over its overcoat to the extortioner who has already taken one's coat—it's really too silly to be talked about seriously by rational people. I'm rather surprised that you do it, Hannah. You're so sensible on most matters."

"Thanks," said Hannah dryly. "To be crazy on only one subject isn't such a bad score.... But I object to your saying that the people who hold to this idea haven't any courage. If you ever try it out, you'll find that it's something the nervous and easily scared had better keep away from. It calls for a kind of reckless bravery that isn't necessary in a fight. When you fight there's a lot of excitement, and even if you're getting the worst of it, you at least can be hitting back. They say a pestered worm will do that. But just to sit still and take it, believing that if you do you will come out of the mess better off than if you had fought—well, that isn't easy to do. If you want to make fun of it because it's foolhardy, I shan't contradict you. But if you say it's cowardly, then I'm afraid you don't understand.... But you'd better let me make this cake.... How's your new toy coming along to-day?"

"Oh—not too badly," sighed Paul, stretching his long arms to full torsion. "But I fear that the thing—even if it does what I want it to do, which isn't any too sure—is going to make a terrible noise."

"Can't you box it up so the racket will all stay in the basement?"

"That's what I'm trying to do. I say"—he added, with a perplexed scowl—"what makes you think I expect to operate this machine in the basement? That's just my workshop, you know. Because the weather's hot."

Hannah nodded, winked rather disquietingly, resumed her dignity, and remarked, "Well, be that as it may, I think you've got a good idea there, Mr Ward."

It was the first time she had expressed herself seriously about his mysterious job in the cellar. He paused, en route to the door, and said, "You mean that?"

"Of course I do," replied Hannah confidentially. "I believe you're going to put it over. I've thought so all along."

Paul strolled back to the table, his eyes bright with interest in her comment.

"Why didn't you say so?" he demanded almost crossly. "It would have helped."

"Partly because it was none of my business," retorted Hannah archly, "but mostly because I thought you'd work better if nobody else messed into it with an opinion."

"Then why are you telling me now?"

"Because my opinions are no good. You just said that the biggest idea I have is too silly to talk about. So—I can say almost anything now without upsetting you."

"Now you are being silly," reproved Paul. "Hannah—if you're right about this little invention of mine, and it succeeds, I'm going to—to—" He paused to contrive something important enough to be worth a promise.

"You'll then believe me right about the other idea: was that what you were trying to say? Well—I can tell you this much: it will be a whole lot easier for you to invent that new refrigerator—"

"What's that?" Paul's voice was a guttural growl as he barged into her words. "How did you know that's what I'm trying to make?"

Hannah touched the tips of her fingers to her puckered lips, and whispered, "I won't tell anybody."

"Well—I'll be damned!" he muttered.

"I wouldn't count very much on that if I were you," commented Hannah judicially. "The Devil's pretty busy, from all reports, and it isn't likely he has time to make that big a fuss over everybody. But—as I was saying—it will be much easier for you to make this—P-s-s-t!—this thing you are making than to understand that it takes more courage to wait and hope for your wishes to come true when almost everybody else is getting what he wants by clawing it out of other people's hands.... Now if you want any blueberry cake, you'd better get out of my way."

At the door he flung back at her boyishly, "Hannah, you're a peach!"

"And a nut," she snapped. "I guess I must be living a double life."

Regularly every other Thursday, rain or shine, Hannah left immediately after the breakfast work was finished and did not return until late in the evening. This had been her custom for months, beginning about the time Marcia was up and resuming her usual activities after the arrival of little Sally.

They had made no secret of what Hannah had meant to them during Marcia's absence in the hospital and the longer period of her convalescence at home. Hannah had been everything—cook, nurse, housekeeper, treasurer, purchasing agent, attorney, anchor, propeller, and pilot, all rolled into one. Indeed, it was through those days that she quietly assumed the complete management of the Ward family's affairs, handling them with such ease and skill that they were quite content to permit it. Sometimes they explained again to each other how they had happened to lean so heavily on Hannah, implying that if it hadn't been for Marcia's six weeks off duty they would never have come to rely on their maid for advice about everything.

It never occurred to the Wards to question the woman's right to keep her own counsel in regard to the use she made of these bi-weekly days off, but there was no denying the curiosity they felt. Marcia had ingenuously opened the way for any confidence Hannah might wish to extend, several times elaborately setting up conversational machinery well adapted to this purpose, devices which the intended victim examined with an exasperating leisureliness before turning away. Sometimes, after Hannah had quietly nibbled all the bait off a particularly attractive lure and drifted nonchalantly out of reach, Marcia found herself wondering whether the canny creature might not have laughed about it a little in private. It wasn't always easy to tell, from the expression on Hannah's face, whether she was serious or spoofing.

On the third occasion of her late arrival home after having been gone since early morning, they were still up and reading in the living-room as she passed through.

"Did you have a pleasant day?" asked Marcia, brightly expectant. And Paul had lowered his book as if to say he would be glad to hear all about it.

Hannah had smiled, nodded graciously enough, and said, "Thanks, Mrs Ward.... We will be having buckwheat cakes in the morning."

After that, Marcia quite gave up hinting. It was simply taken for granted that the inexplicable Hannah, who had discouraged all inquiries about her past and this particular feature of her present, would disappear on alternate Thursdays as completely as if the earth had swallowed her up.

She permitted herself no extravagances—had nothing to be extravagant with, indeed—but when spring came Hannah had found a very becoming little hat and had made a light coat on Marcia's machine. They were surprised to see how pretty she was in her new outfit, in striking contrast to her pathetic dowdiness in the old plush coat and the frighteningly ugly hat of the winter. There was something very attractive about Hannah. She was shapely and carried herself with a confident air. The casual passer-by wouldn't have picked her for the role in which she was cast. It would be natural enough if, on these unexplained excursions, she met some man friend. Marcia often wondered if this were not so, out of her imagination fabricating long stories which never had a very happy ending, for they couldn't spare Hannah now, even to serve the interests of a delayed romance.

Once, when a kitchen conversation had drifted into the vicinity of matrimony in general, Marcia had said, half playfully, but alert to the effect of it, "You'll be married yourself, some day, Hannah"—which earned the non-committal rejoinder, "Think so, Mrs Ward?"—after which the talk suddenly veered off in another direction.

The fact was that Hannah, in that brief pause before replying, had impulsively considered saying, "What makes you think I haven't been married?" But that would inevitably have demanded the telling of her story. There was nothing discreditable about it, but it was painful to remember. And Hannah was not in the market for pity. Sometimes she entertained misgivings over her own calm indifference to Marcia's friendly curiosity. Perhaps, if an occasion had invited it, she might have been able to tell Paul. He would have said, "That's tough, Hannah"—after which he would appear to have forgotten all about it. But Marcia would be bringing it up and wishing something might be done about it.

So—Hannah's days off remained a mystery, and after a few months all inquisitiveness on the subject subsided. If she didn't want to tell them where she went, surely it was her right to keep her affairs a secret.

Only once had there been any variation of her routine. Late one Thursday night in August she had called up to say it would be difficult for her to return until Sunday. She offered no explanations either then or afterwards. On Sunday night, Paul decided, rather impulsively, to take the ten-forty that night for Chicago and spend the next day in the refrigeration department at Armour's.

When the train thundered in, screeching to an impatient stop, Paul walked past the day coaches towards his Pullman. Among the disembarking passengers he recognized Hannah. It was quite plain that she had been crying, for her eyes were red and swollen. It was dismaying, almost frightening, to see the well-poised Hannah in this state. She seemed on the point of hurrying away, though their eyes had met. Apparently thinking better of it, she paused, nodded, and tried a not very successful smile.

"Why, Hannah!" he exclaimed. "You've been out of town?"

"Yes, sir." She made a valiant effort to steady her voice.

He studied her face anxiously for an instant and she averted her swimming eyes. Impetuously taking her arm, he said, "Hannah—is there anything I can do?"

She shook her head, gratefully pressed her fingers against the hand he had laid on her arm, and murmured, "Thank you, Mr Ward."

"B-o-a-r-d!" shouted a trainman.

"I'm awfully sorry, Hannah."

"Yes, sir—I know. Good night, Mr Ward."