XIII
RED MAKES A FEW REMARKS
It seemed to me it was only friendly for me to get some sympathy forSaxton, as he wouldn't try for himself. Yet this looked a delicateproposition. I can't give you the proper idea of how quick-witted Marywas, how easy she saw the behind-meaning of your words, or even sawthings you didn't know yourself.
It's a good trait to its possessor, but, like everything else in thisworld, there's a price to pay for it. She sometimes saw things thatweren't there. A man with extra good sight is more fooled by mirage thana man who doesn't trust his eyes so much. And it had fallen down on her,on the most important dealing of her life. She saw Saxton wrong, andcouldn't see him right, for that trust in her own judgment. She had toroot up the very foundation of her belief in everything to upset herwrong judgment of him. She felt the drawing toward him was something tobe fought hard, the same as a man would fight a growing inclination todrink. And like a great many people (although it's a thing I can'tunderstand myself), she swung to what was solemn, uninteresting, andhard, for safety.
And changed! Well, that morning, when I slid around to the house of thefountain, I scarcely knew her. It was Saturday, and no school. About adozen or twenty young Panamans walked or sat about the yard. TheReconstructed looked stiff and unhappy in the boiled white shirt ofprogress, but out of native good nature tried to appear pleasant.
Lots of the Great Works, that spread misery over whole communities,wouldn't come off, if a sense of a joke was left in the conspirators.Mary was keen for a laugh, and saw the funny side of things as quick asany man, yet those poor little devils all out of place and conditiondidn't raise a smile on her face. It did on mine, though. I thought of'em, happy in their fleas, sun, and dirt, and then looked at theearly-Christian-martyr expression on their faces and choked, but thatlaugh rode on sorrow and anger at that. It was a downright wickedness tothe children. I looked at Mary, knowing her for a kind woman--one wholoved all innocent play. I hit myself on the head at thedumb-foolishness of it. How in the devil's name could she bring herselfto approve of this? Why is it we lay a course for somebody else we'dnever think of following ourselves? Well, I sat there and echo continuedto answer "Why?" as usual, till the silence thickened.
She broke it with a lucky proposition. "You seem very serious thismorning, Will," she said.
I told her that was so; looking at the poor little revolutionists intheir white shirts of suffering, I made up my mind to let her have it.
"I wonder," I said, "if it's asking too much of you to listen to me forawhile. I had a miserable time of it, as a boy, and now and then it sitson me so hard I like to speak to a friend for comfort."
It was the surest way to claim her time. She caught my hand."Certainly," she said. "If you only knew, Will, how anxious I am to beof some real service in this world, instead of being told that I'm--"
"Let it go!" I put in. "That you're good to look at, and so forth?"
She nodded. "I don't mean that I'm so lofty-minded that I don't like itsometimes, yet I mustn't grow to like it and--"
"For my part I'm glad there's some beauty in this little old world,"said I. "I love to trig myself out as you see--give the folks a treat.Honest, I can't see the harm in brightening up the landscape all you'reable. But, though I ain't much of a professional beauty, I canunderstand that too much sugar leads to seasickness."
"You're as handsome a young man as a young man should be!" says Mary,indignant. "Don't attempt a foolish modesty. I wish I were strong, andsix-foot-three, and a man!"
"Throw in the red hair?"
"You have beautiful hair! I believe you know it, you vain boy, and letit grow purposely. And now you're just leading me to sound yourpraises!"
I laughed. "I'd stick at nothing, for that," I answered. "Oh, why ain'tI ten years older! I'd have you out of here in a minute!"
"I believe you would," she said; "I don't believe you'd care for myprotests nor prayers nor tears. You'd just selfishly pick me right upand walk away with me and bully me for the rest of my days!"
"Just that--Heavens! But I'd make it awful for you! Captain Jesse wouldbe a lambkin beside me!"
We both laughed, thinking of Jesse the Terrible.
"The dear old _Matilda_!" she said,--almost whispered,--and her eyesgrew softer.
"Happy times, weren't they? And coming after what I'd left--" I shook myhead.
"Tell me, Will."
"I've wondered how much was my not understanding," I went on, "and howmuch I had to kick about. I suppose if I was older, I'd be likeSax--keep my troubles to myself--but I haven't learned how, yet. Still,I don't want to spoil your morning."
She frowned a little at Saxton's name, not an ill-tempered, but athoughtful frown, as a new idea struck her. She put it away from her,and turned.
"That you should come to me, Will, is a high compliment. I know you'renot the kind to give your woes to the world. If--" she smiled at me, "ifyou won't think it heartless of me, I'll say I'll enjoy hearing 'em."
"I understand," I answered; "just as, in a way, I'll enjoy telling them.Well, here we go."
So I put the facts to her as fair and calm as I could, patterning afterSaxton's method. I hadn't his nerve; gradually heat swept into mydiscourse. I forgot where I was and who I was talking to, as the oldwrongs boiled up.
When I finished I remembered, and sat back.
Mary was also still.
I rolled a cigarette and played for airiness. "Of course," I said, "it'sall in a lifetime."
She put her hand on mine. "Don't," she said, "don't."
I shut up. The minutes slid by heavy-footed.
At last she spoke.
"For sheer inhumanity," she said, "I think that is without an equal."
"Oh, no!" I said. "I reckon the story's common enough wherever peoplelet an idea ride 'em bareback. Father was a good man, with bad notions,that's all."
I purposely let my eye fall on the little revolutionists, standing in amelancholy line--nothing to do, nothing to think, all balloon-juice tothem.
As I hoped, her eyes followed mine. She straightened, seeing the point.Color came into her face. "Children!" she called sharply in Spanish,"why do you not run and play?"
The line fell into embarrassment. They hooked the dirt with their feetand looked at each other.
"Alfonso!" said Mary, "start some game!"
The biggest boy took off his hat and smiled his grave, polite smile.
"_Si_, Senorita!" he replied; "but what is 'game'?"
"I've been so busy with--more important things that I haven't thought ofamusements," Mary explained to me, aside. There was apology in theexplanation; I heard with glad ears. "Is it possible they know nogames?"
"Why, I suppose they do, of a kind," I answered; "but it seems to me thechief lack of these kids is real play; they're all little old men andwomen; the kid spring is knocked out of 'em; they've lived in war andslaughter so much they don't believe in anything else."
"Well," said she promptly, "that's a poor state of affairs."
"The worst," said I. "What kind of nation can you grow out of childrenwho have no fun? Their God will look like a first cousin of our devil. I_did_ manage to rake some sport out of my time, or else I'd gone to thebad entirely, I reckon."
The color deepened in her face. She didn't have to be hit with a club.
"We wanted to furnish them a moral backbone, first," she apologizedagain. "It seemed necessary to give them some standards of conduct."
"I'd give 'em a good time, first--they're a hint young for standards."
"Just see them stand there! Why, they seem without an idea--what shall Ido with them?" She was all at a loss. "It isn't right, poor children!"She suddenly turned to me, with eagerness in her face. "Couldn't youstir them up, Will?"
"Sure!" says I, throwing away the cigarette. "Come along! Tag, you'reit!" and I lit out at a gallop, Mary after me, and the revolutionistswatching, altogether too polite to appear astonished. My! but that girlcould run! Jump, too; I cleared the
fountain, thinking she'd have to go'round, but she gathered her skirts in her hand and was over it in aflash of black and white, clean-motioned as a greyhound.
"_Qui dado, compadres!_" I yelled. "Here comes the government army!"Instantly they understood and scattered. By hollering at them, theyfinally got the idea. Tag wouldn't have interested them--revolution did.We divided into sides. As soon as they got going good, Mary and Idropped out of it.
"There," said I, watching 'em running and hollering and giggling, "Ilike that better."
"It is better," agreed Mary, "and my thanks to you for the change. I'mafraid one forgets the little needs in thinking of the great ones."
"Mary," I said, "it may sound strange coming from me; I hope you won'ttake it wrong; but do you know that in reading the New Testament plumbthrough, I can't remember coming on a place where it says anything aboutbig needs? Please don't think I'm talking too careless for decency;Christ always acted like a kind friend, as I see it. I can't believe itwould hurt His feelings a particle to hear me talk this way. He wasabove worrying about lots of things that bother the churches. He stoppedto take a glass of wine and have a talk with a saloon-keeper. Now, if Hewas God, was that a little thing? Does God do little useless things?Remember, I thought these things over when I was getting it hard--stopme, if I seem disrespectful."
"No," she said, "it sounds queerly to me, but I know you are notdisrespectful, Will. I wouldn't accuse you of being the kind of foolwho'd play smart at the expense of the Almighty."
"All right--glad you understand me. Now, listen! Is it great to pull along face? Is it right to get melancholy about religion, when the headof it always preached happiness? Is it sensible to try and make everyone do your way, when you're told the nearer like little children weare, the better we are off? Don't you think you're acting as if you knewbetter than Christ Himself? You don't imagine that those kids, as theywere ten minutes ago, was what He meant when He said, 'Suffer littlechildren to come unto Me'? Seems to me you've altered the text to read:'Suffer, little children, to come unto Me.' They sure were suffering inthem starched white shirts, but I'm betting the words weren't meant toread like that."
"Will," she said earnestly, "I think I've made the common mistake ofsupposing that I alone cared. Even now, while I feel you have more thereal spirit than I, your way of speaking jars on me." She sat down as ifshe had suddenly grown weak. "I have simply worshiped a certain way ofdoing things and forgotten the results and the reason for doinganything. Your straight way of putting it makes my life seemridiculous."
She stopped with a miserable face. I hadn't, in the least, thought toconvince her. Most people will hang on to a mistake of that kind harderthan they will to a life-preserver. It was like turning a Republicaninto a Democrat by simply showing him he was wrong--who'd go intopolitics with that idea?
I stared at her, not believing. "Why, Mary," I said, hedging, as aperson will in such circumstances, "it ain't a cinch that I'm right. I'monly a boy, and of course things appear to me boy fashion."
She cut me short. "To be honest, doubts have troubled me before this.Your history proves what can be done by extreme--"
Up to this she had spoken quite quietly. Now she put her head in herhands and burst out crying; fortunately we were in a little summer-housewhere no one could see us.
"Oh, Will!" she sobbed out, "the struggle for nothing at all! All fight,fight, and no peace! I want to be a good woman, I _do_; but what isthere for me?"
"Listen to me again," says I, so sorry that I had another attack ofreason. "There's this for you--to be a man's wife, and make him twice aman because you are his wife; to raise boys and girls that prove what'sright--there's a job for you."
She dried her tears and smiled at me, ashamed of showing so muchfeeling. "Is this an offer?" she said.
I had to laugh. "You don't squirm out that way, young lady--you were inearnest and you know it. I'll take you, if necessary--by the ProphetMoses, I _will_, if some other feller doesn't show up soon--but I wantto speak of a more suitable man."
She looked at me. It was a try at being stern, but, as a result, it wasa good deal more scared.
"You can do a great deal with me, Will," she said, "but I'll not hear aword of Arthur Saxton."
"Then," says I, stern in dead earnest, "you are a foolish and an unfairwoman. You've believed what was told you; now you _shall_ hear afriend."
"I will _not_," she cried, rising.
I caught her arms and forced her back into the seat. "You will," Ianswered.
"Very well," she said with quivering lips. "If you wish to takeadvantage of the friendship I have shown you, and, because you arestrong, make me hear what I have forbidden you to say, I'm helpless."
"All the mean things you say sha'n't stop me. Now, as long as you _must_listen, won't you pay attention?" I asked this in my most wheedlingtone. I knew I'd fetch her. She stayed stiff for about ten seconds. Thenthe dimples came.
"It makes me so angry to think I can't get angry with you, I don't knowwhat to do," she snapped at me. "You have no _business_ to talk to methis way. I shouldn't stand it for a minute. You're nothing but a greatbully, bullying a poor little woman, you nice boy! Who ever heard ofsuch an argument? Because you _make_ me listen, I must pay attention!Well, to show you what a friend I am, I will."
"Thank you, Mary," I said, holding out my hand. "Thank you, dear. You'llnot be the worse for hearing the truth. It isn't like you to condemn aman unheard."
"I heard him."
"You heard a lunatic--he told me; why will you call up the worst of himand believe only in that?"
She sprang up, outraged. "I do _not_ call up the worst of him! That is acowardly excuse--he should be man enough to--"
"Wait: I never meant you did it intentionally. Can't you see how anxioushe might be to please you? Can't you believe that if he did something hethought would please you greatly, and you called him a rascal for it,that the worst of him would likely come on top?"
"Yes," she answered slowly; "I can see that--_I_ should, I know."
"Of course you would. Now listen. I have a story for you, that your loveof kindness and nobility will find pleasure in."
Again I tried Saxton's method--there isn't a better one, if it's realstuff you have to tell. Very quietly I put it to her as he had to me.She had less color when I finished.
"If that is the truth, it _was_ noble," she said, when I finished. Thebreath fluttered in her throat.
"It _is_ the truth. Arthur isn't too good to lie, by any means, but hehas too much pride and courage to lie about a thing like that."
She nodded her head in assent. I got excited, seeing victory in sight,but had sense enough to keep cool. I knew, even at that early age,there's snags sometimes underneath the smoothest water.
She sighed as if the life of her went out.
"Impulse," she said, "a noble impulse--and then? an ignoble one,followed with the same determination."
That had too much truth in it. I didn't approve of his drinking himselfto death, because he couldn't have what he wanted.
"Yes," I answered smoothly, "and what he needs is a strong excuse tomake them all good--he has the strength to do it, you don't deny that?"
"He has strength to do anything--there is the pity of it. There neverlived a man who so had his life in his own hand as Arthur Saxton. Wouldyou have me marry him to reform him? Have I no right to feel proud, onmy side?"
"No, to the first," says I, "and yes, to the second. He has waked up atlast, I feel sure--if only you could believe in him a little more."
"Oh, Will!" she said, "that is what I fear the most. I don't care if hedemands much, for so do I, but to be dependent that way--I cannot trusthim, till he trusts himself."
"Yes, Mary," I agreed; "but at the same time, he's lots more of a manthan the average, handicap him with all his faults!"
She answered me with a curious smile. "Mine is an unhappy nature in oneway," she said; "half a loaf is worse than no bread to me. I'd rathernever know of Paradise than see
and lose it." She threw her hands outsuddenly, in a gesture that was little short of agony.
"Oh, I wish sometimes I had no moral sense at all--that I could justlive and be happy--and I _can't_ be very good if I wish that--that's acomfort." She turned to me. "Now, Will, I have opened my heart to you asI could not have done to my own mother; will you believe me if I say Icannot talk about this any more?"
"Sure, sweetheart," I said, and kissed her. She let her head stay on myshoulder.
"You are a great comfort, brother Will," she said. The tone madesomething sting in my eyes. Poor little woman, fighting it out allalone, so unhappy under the smiles, so born to be happy!
I couldn't speak to save me. She looked up at my face. "You are a braveand noble gentleman, brother mine," she said. I think that would havefinished me up--I am such a darned woman at times, but she changed quickas lightning.
"Let's play with the children," she said. "We've had enough of this."
I was glad to scamper around. One thing was certain. I'd hurt Sax none,and proved the value of my plan. Another thing I wanted to know Ilearned on leaving.
"Mary," I said, as if it was an understood thing between us, "why didMr. Belknap speak against Saxton?"
She fell into the trap, unthinking. "Because he wished to warn me, ofcourse. And in spite of all you say, Will--forgive me--he is a man ofsuch insight, I cannot believe him altogether wrong."
"It would be bad if Belknap didn't turn out the man you think him,wouldn't it?" I asked, innocently.
"It would," she said. And with that I came away.
Plain Mary Smith: A Romance of Red Saunders Page 13
