Читать книгу Proud Lady - Neith Boyce - Страница 5

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The doctor returned earlier than usual, and was able to work for an hour in his garden, before dark. Mrs. Lowell, wrapped in a purple shawl, stood in the path, while he was turning over the soil with a pitchfork. She often objected to his working on Sunday. The doctor pointed out that his hedges were thick enough to conceal him from observation; she said that being seen wasn't what mattered, but breaking the Sabbath; whereupon the doctor alleged that he felt more religious when working in his garden than any other time, so that Sunday seemed a particularly appropriate day to work in it. This would reduce Mrs. Lowell to silence; she always looked scandalized when her husband referred to religion, suspecting blasphemy somewhere.

This old dispute was not in question now, however. In answer to a question about "the young folks," Mrs. Lowell had said curtly that they were out walking. Then she had stood silent, her broad pale face, with its keen eyes and obstinate mouth, expressing so plainly trouble and chagrin that the doctor spoke very gently.

"You mustn't worry about it, Mother."

Her chin trembled and she set her mouth more firmly.

"Of course I worry about it! I never liked it!"

"No, I know you didn't. But Laurence isn't a bad fellow."

"That's a high praise for a man that—that—!"

"Yes, I know, you think he isn't good enough for Mary. But you wouldn't think anybody good enough."

"I've seen plenty better than Laurence Carlin! Who is he, anyway—the son of a labourer, a man that worked for day-wages when he wasn't too drunk!"

"Oh, come now, Mother! Don't shake the family crest at us. Your father was a carpenter—and don't I work for wages?"

"My father was a master-carpenter and had his own shops and workmen, as you know very well!" cried Mrs. Lowell, flushing with wrath. "And if you like to say you work for wages, when it isn't true, you can, of course! Anyhow my people and yours too were good Americans for generations back and not bog-trotting Irish peasants!"

"Now, Mother, who told you Laurence's ancestors trotted in bogs? They may have been—"

"Didn't his father come over here with a bundle on his back, an immigrant?"

"Why, now, we're all immigrants, more or less, you know. Didn't your ancestors come over from England?"

"James Lowell—"

"Yes, I know, they came in the Mayflower, or pretty nearly ... that is, those that did come. Of course, on one side you're right, and we're all immigrants and foreigners, except you! You're the only real native American!"

And the doctor chuckled, while his wife started to walk into the house. A standing joke with him was Mrs. Lowell's aboriginal ancestry. Her grandfather, in Vermont, had married a French-Canadian, and the doctor pretended to have discovered that this grandmother was half Indian. He would point to her miniature portrait on the parlour-wall, her straight black hair and high cheek-bones, as confirmation. Mrs. Lowell and Mary too had the high cheek-bones, they had also great capacity for silence, which the doctor said was an Indian trait—not to mention the ferocity of which he sometimes accused his wife. Equally a jest with him was her undoubted descent from a genteel English family which actually did boast a crest and motto—and the fact that Mrs. Lowell treasured a seal with these family arms, and though she did not use it, she might, any day. And how did she reconcile her pride in that seal with her pride in the grandfather who had fought in the Revolution?

But the doctor, seeing his wife walk away, stuck his pitchfork in the ground and followed her, saying penitently:

"There, there, now, I was only joking."

"Yes, you'd joke if a person was dying!... But you know very well what I'm thinking about is his character, that's what worries me. His father drank. And he's got nothing to hold him anywhere, he's a rolling stone, I'm sure. I don't believe he has principles. And he's been roaming around for four years, getting into all sorts of bad habits, no doubt—"

The doctor sighed. It was useless to oppose his wife's idea that the life of a soldier was mainly indulgence, not to say license. Useless to point to Laurence's military record, for she did not approve of the war, her position being that people should be let alone and not interfered with. If they wanted to keep slaves, let them, they were responsible for their sins. If they wanted to secede, it was a good riddance. How did she reconcile this principle of non-resistance with the fact that she imposed her own will whenever she could on all around her? She didn't. That was her strength, she never tried to reconcile any of her ideas with one another—it was impossible to argue with her. So he sighed, for he knew she wanted comfort, her pride and her love for Mary were bleeding—and he couldn't give it. He was doubtful himself about this marriage. What he finally said was cold enough comfort:

"I don't think we can help it."

"You're her father!" cried Mrs. Lowell, angrily. "I've said all I can."

"I'll talk to Mary," he said.

"Oh—talk!"

With that she went into the house and banged the door. Well, what did she expect him to do—shut Mary up—or disinherit her? The doctor smiled ruefully as he returned to his gardening. It was growing dark, but he would work as long as he could see. There was no set meal on Sunday nights—people went to the pantry and helped themselves when they felt like it. He liked the smell of the fresh earth, even mixed with the manure he was turning in. The air was sharp and sweet, and over there above the lilacs with their little tremulous leaves, was a thin crescent moon. He stood looking at it, leaning on his pitchfork, thinking that tomorrow he would put in the rest of his seeds, if he had time. Thinking how sweet was the spring, how full of tenderness and melancholy, now as ever, though he was an old man....

He thought too of the murdered Lincoln, whom he had deeply admired; of the men now returning to their homes, the long struggle over; of the many he had known who would not return. He had wanted to serve also, had offered himself for the field-hospitals but had been rejected on the score of age. That might have been a good end, he thought. Now what was before him but old age, with lessening powers, the routine of life.... He sighed again, submissively, and darkness having come, went slowly in.

To his wife's surprise, he offered to accompany her to church. She was pleased, for now she could take his arm instead of Carlin's, who followed with Mary. Laurence had no particular desire to go to church, but as Mary was going, naturally he went also. They walked silently, arm in arm, down the quiet street. Mary had been very sweet and gentle to him, all day, and very serious—more so than ever before. She had changed, he felt, she was not a young girl any more, she was a woman. She had never been very gay—but yet she had had a glow of youth rather than sparkle, an enthusiasm, that he missed now. They had talked over plans for the future, gravely. She was ready to marry him at once, if he wished. She did not mind his being poor, she had said earnestly, she expected they would be, at first. She had not expected it to be a path of roses. There was a slight chill about this, to Laurence. Marriage with Mary was to him a rosy dream, a miracle—not a sober reality.

Still silently, they entered the church and took their seats. It was the "meeting-house," plain, austere—nothing to touch the senses. No mystery of shadowy lights or aspiring arches or appealing music. But the pews and benches were full, when the simple service began, there were even people standing at the back, as in a theatre.

Mary sat with her head bent forward. The broad rim of her bonnet hid her face from Laurence, but he felt this was the attitude of prayer. He watched her for what seemed many minutes, with a faint uneasiness. He had never thought Mary religious, and somehow her absorption seemed to set her away from him—it was one more change. She raised her head only when the minister stepped into the pulpit and gave out a hymn, and then she looked directly at him. She joined in the singing, with a deep, sweet alto, a little husky and tremulous.

Hilary Robertson in the pulpit had no pomp of office. With his black coat and black string tie he looked like any other respectable citizen, and his manner was perfectly simple. But when he began his prayer, there was an intense hush of attention in his audience. It was a brief prayer, for help in present trouble, for guidance in darkness, like the cry of a suffering heart. Many of the congregation were in mourning. This appeal was perhaps in their behalf, but it had the note of personal anguish.

There was the secret of Hilary's power. He never appeared the priest, set apart from the struggle of living—but a man like any other, a sinner, for so he felt himself to be. And then, he had true dramatic power, he could move and sway his hearers. His voice, his eloquence, his personality, created an atmosphere, in that bare room, like cathedral spaces, the colours of stained glass, deep organ melodies, incense—an atmosphere of mystic passion, thrilling and startling.

When the prayer ended and another hymn was sung, Carlin caught a glimpse of Mary's face, pale, exalted; her eyes, shining with fervour, fixed upon the minister. The mask for a moment had fallen, she was all feeling, illuminated. Carlin saw it, with a sharp jealous pang. Some strong emotion surely rapt her away from him, into a region where he could not follow. She was as unconscious of him now as though he had not existed, and so she remained through the service.

Carlin listened, sitting rigidly upright, his arms folded, his narrow blue eyes upon the speaker. He wanted to study and judge this man, for whom he suddenly felt a personal dislike.

He referred this dislike to Hilary's office—any assumption of spiritual authority was repugnant to him, perhaps partly from memories of his boyhood, when the priest had tried to direct him. His mood of sharp criticism was not softened by the beginning of Hilary's brief discourse. The first thing that struck his attention was a quotation from Lincoln's inaugural address:

"If God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn by the lash shall be paid by another drawn by the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so must it still be said, 'The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether'."

This blood and treasure had been paid, the preacher said, the whole nation had spent to cancel the debt incurred by our own and our father's guilt, the measure had been filled up by the death of Lincoln. In spite of himself, Carlin approved what was said about Lincoln. It was true also, he admitted, that though peace had been declared, the nation was still in the midst of turmoil arising out of past errors, the evil spirit, departing, had rent and torn it. Peace was not on the earth and never would be. Not peace but a sword had been given to men. Yes, that was true, probably. The world was an eternal battle-field, the field of a war without truce and without end, till man should subjugate his own nature. In the heart of man, full of pride, self-love and injustice, lay the root of all evil. He that could overcome himself was greater than he that should take a city. That was the true, the infinite struggle, of which all others were but ephemeral incidents—that was the end and aim of man's existence on earth. Not with earthly but with spiritual weapons must his battles be fought and his eternal conquests made.

Hilary spoke with curt simplicity, but with the fire of a spirit to whom these things were realities, indeed the only realities, all else being a shadow and a dream. There was nothing cold about his morality, nothing soft or sweet—it was intense, hard and burning.

A fanatic, Carlin thought, frowning—but all the same a man to be reckoned with.