Читать книгу White Banners - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 8

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Paul was in gay spirits at dinner. Marcia could not remember when he had been so unaccountably incandescent, certainly not for a year or more, and strongly hinted that she would be glad to rejoice with him if she knew what it was about. He seemed to be hugging a secret. It was not an unprecedented mood. Usually, as Christmas or her birthday approached, he slyly made pretence of torturing her curiosity with suppressed tidings of great joy, a boyish whimsy she tried to play up to with protestations that it wasn't fair, but privately alarmed for fear some preposterous extravagance, indulged in for her delight, would bring down on their hapless house a dismaying epidemic of bill-collectors representing the merchants whose monthly statements lay in her desk with a rubber band around them and a lot of menace in them.

And so often—how she despised herself for thinking this, but, my Sainted Uncle! wasn't it true?—the extravagant gifts were things utterly unusable. The fitted over-night bag, a-sparkle with silver-plated trinkets: how long had it been since she had had occasion to carry an over-night bag! The electric egg-boiler on a Sheffield tray! The morocco-cased traveller's clock! And the black velvet evening wrap with cheap white fur fuzzing. She had actually laughed at that: an evening wrap. She hadn't had an evening gown since her wedding. She pictured herself at a party, doffing her new black velvet coat and letting her hostess see what she had on under it. She laughed, and cried, after she had told Paul it was exactly what she had been wanting. Surely whatever old fellow it was had written in the Bible, "Love beareth and endureth all things", must have had a pretty good head—for a prophet.

Unfortunately, Paul would have to go back to the university to-night. Dean Oliver had been ill—Marcia knew this was true—and had been farming out his schedule of student interviews among the members of the staff. Not that Paul resented it. Indeed, he had found it rather pleasant to sit in the dean's chair for a couple of hours and play he was God for a procession of shame-faced athletes who had been a bit nonchalant in their attitude towards the Faerie Queen or had thought erroneously, when they had registered for it, that Anglo-Saxon was "a pipe". But he would be back as soon as possible, and they would play a few games of Russian bank if Marcia was still up.

He had warmly felicitated Hannah on her successful merchandising, making no reservations in the sincere appreciation he felt. Fearing perhaps that he had not shown this plainly enough, he sauntered out to the kitchen and said, generously but just a bit condescendingly: "It pleases us very much, Hannah, that you have decided to stay here. I hope we may make it worth your while—if not immediately, some day before too long." His eyes were dreamily averted as he added, rather mysteriously, "We might not always be so hard up."

Hannah, who was now eating her own dinner on the porcelain table, looked him over appraisingly. Yes, that was it, all right: he was inventing something, poor devil. And spending the money already, no doubt. Giving her some of it. Probably arranging an annuity for her comfort in her old age.

Marcia, unfastening Wallie's bib and helping him down, involuntarily closed her eyes for a moment, as in prayer, and wished he wouldn't. This Hannah, who could see you through a stone wall and count the buttons on your coat, would probably grin when she had a chance. Really—you had to love someone very much indeed to put up with this sort of thing. Hannah could hardly be expected to view it sympathetically. For a moment, Marcia wished this woman had never come to look in on their grown-up playhouse; that's what it was.

Hannah smiled, rather grimly, and went on eating her dinner, listening, but taking stock of him as he stood there, his feet a little too wide apart for a professor. Excellent fellow—she liked him. But this was no time for him to be counting his chickens. Or hinting at what he was about to catch a pailful of at the end of a rainbow. And she didn't quite relish this air of benevolence with which he was filling her hands with the earnings of his dreams. She honestly hated to do it, but it would be good for him to get himself back on the ground again.

"How soon do you have to go?" she asked irrelevantly, in her throaty contralto.

He pursed his lips, dragged out his watch, studied it for a moment out of the tail of his eye, and said it would be almost half an hour.

"If you'll go upstairs and take off those trousers," she said, in the tone of sixty talking to six, "I'll press 'em for you. They look sort o' jumpy, if you know what I mean. We've got to keep up appearances, you know," she added, with one of her unanswerable smiles.

He stood for a moment, uncertain whether to be offended or grateful; then slowly turned and started on his errand. As he passed through the living-room, Marcia glanced up inquisitively, sensitive to a sudden change in his mood.

"Must you?" she asked gently.

"Not for a few minutes. She's going to press my pants." Hoping to give the episode a touch of drollery to save himself from abject abasement, he whispered behind his hand, "She says they're jumpy—if you know what I mean."

Marcia was tempted to laugh, but, divining the humiliation under his not very effective mask of clownishness, a wave of loyalty and compassion suddenly sobered her.

"Hannah had no business to say that to you."

"Well—it's true, isn't it?" he growled, with a reluctant grin. "They haven't been pressed for weeks. Hannah's impudent as the devil, I grant you, but she's right about the pants."

He tossed the baggy trousers over the banister and Marcia carried them to the kitchen where Hannah was ready with the ironing-board. In a few minutes they were on him again, and he was leaving with his old grey felt hat set at a jaunty angle, his self-assurance entirely recovered. Hannah was clearing the table.

"Thank you, Hannah," he called jovially. "I'll do as much or you some time." Then he kissed Marcia with more ardour than was customary at the hall door and left boyishly whistling.

Undoubtedly he was manœuvring himself into a grand state of expectation with a bitter disappointment waiting to smite the lustre out of his eyes, but it was difficult to resist the contagion of enthusiasm. Marcia returned to her needlework with a lighter heart than she had carried for months. After all—wasn't it better, she asked herself, to tarry for an hour occasionally in a Fool's Paradise, and pretend to enjoy it, than dwell perpetually in the more rational Valley of Baghdad which seemed to be their manifest destiny?

When the children had been put to bed, Marcia strolled out to the kitchen where Hannah was busy with the hog's head. It was interesting to watch her. Apparently she knew exactly what use was to be made of every particle: very competent, no matter what she endeavoured to do. Never before had Marcia felt quite so helpless and inexperienced as in the presence of this resourceful woman. It annoyed her a little, and it annoyed her even more to realize that she had permitted it to annoy her. She had fully realized her own incompetency in dealing with the problems of home management, but it had never been so startlingly called to her attention. It wasn't simply that she didn't know how to buy economically, didn't know how to utilize food efficiently when it was sent to her, didn't know how to organize her time: she was not resourceful. That was the one word that told the whole story. Hannah knew how to convert worthless cellar junk into money, she knew how to get coal at half-price, she knew how to press trousers so they'd look like new, she could fabricate three dollars' worth of meat from a seventy-cent hog's head. Marcia admired, her, envied her, respected her—and disliked her for being so capable.

And yet, in all honesty, she reflected, Hannah really hadn't put on a show of superior knowledge. She had been deferential enough. But the fact remained that she—Marcia Wallace Ward, A.B.—fell very far short of being as capable as this enigma that had drifted in from God knew where.

"What's your other name, Hannah?" she inquired, after several minutes of silence between them. "I don't remember your telling us."

"My family's name is Parmalee."

"They don't live in this part of the country?"

"No.... Some people like the brains, too. Shall I prepare some for breakfast?"

Marcia said she should do as she pleased. They could try it, anyway, though somehow it didn't sound very good. Hannah agreed to this, adding that if they didn't like it, she would fry some sausage.

"Mr Ward will probably like the brains," speculated Marcia.

"I expect so," said Hannah. "Men are always able to eat things like that. I think they just do it to show they're brave."

"That sounds a little as if you might be a man-hater, Hannah," ventured Marcia, with a chuckle to prove it was said in play.

"There's nothing wrong about bravery," declared Hannah dryly. "Everybody wants to be. Trouble with the average man is he doesn't get much chance to show his muscle, living in the city and working at a desk. That's what makes 'em have tough spells at home and roar, 'Who the hell's hid my pipe?' And his wife feels hurt. Doesn't realize that he's just out trotting his manliness around to see if it's still working. I think it's a pretty good thing to feed a man brains, once in a while, and say, 'I really don't see how you can do it!' while he's eating. And kidneys, too. He should be fed kidneys and feet and tails and snouts and garter-snakes and praise—heaping spoonfuls of praise!"

"I suppose so," said Marcia thoughtfully, wondering whether Hannah wasn't trying to give her a little indirect advice on how to manage a husband. "I try to practise that, though perhaps I'm not very good at it. I think we all do better if we're encouraged."

Hannah agreed to this so heartily that Marcia wished the supple-minded woman might find something in her worth a word of commendation. As she mentally called the roll of the brief conflicts of opinion they had had, one little episode invited debate.

"Hannah," she said reminiscently, "when you didn't want me to climb the stairs yesterday, I asked you to go up and get my purse, and you thought me very foolish. But—wouldn't you have done that yourself under the same circumstances?"

Hannah hacked hard with the cleaver and resumed her skilful operations with the butcher-knife. "Yes," she said at length, "I would have—but that's a different matter."

"You mean it would have been all right for you to do it, but not for me?" Marcia's grin was slightly derisive. "I think that's an odd thing for you to say."

"I shouldn't have said it," admitted Hannah, "though I meant no offence, ma'am."

"Just what did you mean, then?" Marcia challenged stiffly.

"I meant," explained Hannah, quite undisturbed, "that you would have done it without stopping to think it over—just on impulse, you know—and it might have turned out badly—and then you would have had nothing to show for it."

"On impulse!" echoed Marcia. "Well—how would you have done it, if not impulsively? Or perhaps it's a fixed habit with you to let people take advantage of you."

Hannah nodded her head demurely. "I'm afraid I do," she confessed, "but I wouldn't recommend the habit—that is, not generally. It costs more than most people would care to pay."

Marcia moved towards the door, making no effort to conceal the fact that she was considerably ruffled. It was insufferable to be treated like a child. And anyway—what the woman had been saying was stuff and nonsense. She paused in the doorway.

"Now, look here, Hannah—" Marcia didactically laid down a slim index finger in the exact centre of her other palm. "Let's get this straight. You said that if I allowed a stranger to go to my room for my purse, I would be doing it on impulse; and that if the stranger imposed on me, I would have nothing to show for it. Granted. I think that's correct. Well—suppose that you, who, it seems, do this sort of thing by habit and according to a programme, should allow a stranger the same privilege and she imposed on you, what would you have to show for it?—I'd like to know."

Hannah seemed so intent on her occupation for a while that there was no opportunity to talk. Presently she sat down with the large wooden bowl in her lap and began cutting up the meat into very small pieces. Glancing up at Marcia, still waiting, she gave her a tender little smile.

"Sorry I brought it up," she said quietly. "I'm afraid I can't explain it very well. If I told you everything I believe, you might think I was out of my mind."

She had spoken so gently and seriously that Marcia forgot her indignation.

"I think," she ventured, "that I understand you now. You trust everyone. Isn't that it? Once in a while you are disappointed and defrauded, but you can afford to take the loss because—because it usually turns out all right, and balances up. Isn't that it?"

"Not quite. Not at all, in fact. No—that isn't it. When you trust somebody and he lets you down, you've something to show for that, too. I don't understand it myself, Mrs Ward, and it sounds very silly, but it's true."

Marcia felt she had had about all of this that was good for her. She nodded briefly, non-committally. Hannah might interpret it to be a mildly indifferent assent either to the truth or silliness of what she had been saying. Patting a yawn, she said she would go to bed now, and proceeded to the living-room, where she sat for some time looking into the fire. Then she went back to the kitchen. Hannah smiled inquiringly. Marcia searched her uplifted grey eyes.

"Try to tell me, Hannah. Maybe I'm not as dumb as I look. If you had sent me for your purse, and I had bolted out of the house with it, you wouldn't have tried to catch me, because—you'd have had something to show for your trustfulness. How do you mean? What would you have had?"

"More strength," replied Hannah determinedly.

"It sounds a little like some kind of religion," Marcia observed, "but if it was, you would probably be trying to bully me into believing it, whether I wanted to or not; so—it must be something else. And you won't tell me what you get out of it?" Marcia was more than a little annoyed. "I don't suppose it would work for anyone as dull as I am, anyhow. So it would hardly be worth while telling me."

Hannah continued at her work with downcast eyes.

"I'm not good enough, perhaps," goaded Marcia.

Hannah looked up, smiled, sighed, and bent again over her task.

"Sorry," muttered Marcia. "I had no business to say that."

"Oh—I don't mind," said Hannah tranquilly. "Once I would have said the same thing. I told you I couldn't make you see it. That's true. It's not because you're too dumb to understand. It's because I'm too dumb to explain. All that I know about it is this: if you find that you're related to people—all kinds of people—so closely that if you make war on them you're fighting yourself—and if you don't trust them you're not trusting yourself—there's a strange power that begins to give you more than you had lost by being defrauded, now and then. If you walk quietly and trustfully—you have something to show for it."

"You mean—satisfaction; spiritual satisfaction; that sort of thing?" Marcia's little flick of the fingers dismissed the whole business. "That's old stuff. They used to sing about it in Sunday School—when I was only so high."

"Not by a jugful they didn't!" protested Hannah, so swiftly and sternly that the denial made Marcia blink in amazement.

"Nobody sings about this, I can tell you! This thing I'm talking about isn't easy to do. It's not baby-play. If you want to find out whether it's something you can set to a Sunday-school tune, you just try it! Make some experiments with it!" Hannah put the wooden mixing-bowl on the table and stood erect, her grey eyes lighted with an animation that held Marcia rigidly at attention. "You make a resolution that when people revile you, and persecute you, and defraud you, you'll simply smile back and take it on the chin—and make that the fixed rule of your life—and refuse to quarrel or fight, no matter what they do to you—and you'll soon discover that you've tackled something with more teeth in it than a Sunday-school ditty?" She sat down again, took the bowl between her knees, rather abashed over the very long speech she had made.

"Why, Hannah!" Marcia's voice was half-frightened. "Who'd ever have thought you could get stirred up like that."

"I didn't mean to, ma'am, I don't—very often. You see—it has cost me a lot, and I didn't like to see it mixed up with something that people sleep over on Sunday mornings."

"Do you think I ought to try it?" asked Marcia childishly.

There was a long silence.

"That would be for you to decide. If you want to know anything more about it than I've told you, you may have to discover it for yourself." Hannah paused so long that Marcia, thinking the strange talk ended, turned away. "But—when you do discover it," finished Hannah impressively, "something will happen to you that you're not looking for, I can tell you that much.... And you'll be surprised!"

"I don't think I understand," murmured Marcia, mystified.

"How many senses have you?" asked Hannah, in a low voice.

"Five—I've always believed," answered Marcia, smiling.

"Well—you make an honest trial of this thing we've been talking about," said Hannah meaningly, "and you'll have six."

"What a funny thing to say!"

"Yes—isn't it?... And when you get it—the sixth one—and I can promise you it won't be an easy thing to do—you'll be"—Hannah waited and groped, with questing eyes, for the right word, and failing to find it, she lamely fell back on what she had said before—"you'll be surprised!"