by George Hagen
He glanced at her, fearing her famous mockery, but her expression was innocent. “You deserve someone who appreciates you, Peter.”
Iris removed her spectacles. A new idea had entered her head. As she sensed the slight incline towards her house, she asked Carnahan to stop before they were in view of the windows. Tom had hung a lantern from the veranda for the girls' return, and she could see it through the trees, but she wanted a moment alone with the boy.
“I should walk from here. I don't want to wake my father,” she explained. Smoothing her dress, she drew a stray lock of hair behind one ear and raised her eyes to meet his. “You're very handsome and gallant, Peter. Any girl can see that,” she said, though he was a blur before her. “Margaret certainly should.”
Carnahan thanked her for the compliment. He sprang down, circled the carriage, and helped Iris from her seat. She held on to his hand for a moment longer than necessary, then reached up and stroked his hair.
“Lily of the valley …”
She smoothed her narrow waist with both hands, directing his gaze to her figure.
“Iris, you're sweet too,” he conceded.
“Oh, Peter,” she cooed.
Suddenly Carnahan took her in his arms and kissed her. Perhaps it was a kiss meant for Margaret, but Iris returned it longingly. His body was muscular and taut. She felt his ribs as she put one hand against his chest in feigned resistance. “Oh, Peter,” she sighed.
“I'm sorry,” he blurted.
Iris lowered her head meekly, as if she were ashamed. “You had probably saved that kiss for Margaret. I shouldn't have provoked you.”
Carnahan shook his head. “Iris—”
“I envy Margaret,” she said. “I'll never be as pretty as she is, but—”
“Iris?” he declared, “you're a fine girl! A damned fine girl!”
Iris leaned forward, planted her own kiss on his lips, and, with a demure smile, turned towards the house.
Carnahan called after her, “Iris, what about your ankle?”
“Oh.” She smiled. “Cured!”
“Iris, I'll see you again soon!”
With a snap of the reins, he was clattering down the driveway. Iris quickly put her spectacles back on and hurried up to the house. Tom was sitting on the veranda with Arthur at his side.
“You're early. Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, “… blissful.”
WAR
IT STARTED IN AUGUST 1914, AND EVERYBODY EXPECTED IT TO BE over by Christmas. Once the British Expeditionary Force began to march, there was no doubt that the colonies would join it, which brought the war to the Chapels' doorstep.
Tom hadn't forgotten his experience in the Anglo-Boer War, and viewed the daily headlines with dread. He observed, however, that as his children wrestled with the issues at the breakfast table, their opinions of the war were framed by personal experience.
Iris, who had now taught grammar to the boys at St. Peter's for several years, dismissed the war as a school yard fight between bullies. “The assassination of the Archduke, for example,” she explained, “was no different from the fight in the dining hall just the other day! One braggart lobbed his football boot across the room and struck another boy in the eye. Half a minute later every other ruffian was punching his worst enemy in the face!”
Iris's affection for the teaching life was tempered by such observations. She still loved literature and cherished producing the annual Shakespeare performance, but she considered the other teachers a stuffy bunch and the boys savages. Her one consolation was the affair she had provoked with Peter Carnahan; he made monthly visits to Margaret, but Iris seized each opportunity to make some small impression on him. She would dust his shoulder, or adjust his tie, or ask him to examine a speck that had fallen into her eye. Eventually, Carnahan appeared at the Chapel house, knowing that Margaret would not be there, and Iris seized the opportunity to seduce him in the Horvaths' apple orchard. Once she had laid claim to his lips and sturdy timber, the visits to Margaret ceased.
This probably explained Margaret's opinion on the war. When the Germans advanced upon Brussels, all she could think about was her sister's theft of Peter Carnahan. “None of this would have happened if people respected borders!” she argued. “The Germans had no right to invade Belgium. They must be stopped, and driven back!”
She was twenty-four when the war was declared, and the sting of losing Carnahan was an open wound. He would call to see Iris, his blond hair thrown back carelessly, his skin glowing, and Margaret would stare at him with saintly longing. Carnahan, she realized, was probably the only man worth marrying in Gantrytown. She still considered herself the sole match for him, but Iris, with her bawdy jokes, her silly rhymes, her dramatic gestures and deceptions, had taken him for good. Margaret was trapped at home—the doctor's nurse, accountant, housekeeper, and cook. Filling her mother's shoes hadn't been the joy she had expected.
The war made the most profound impact on Charity. She pored over the newspaper every morning, consumed not by the politics but by the spiritual ramifications of the conflict. “Thousands of people are dying, nations are at war, and the world is falling to pieces,” she lamented. “The signs are everywhere. Even a blind man could tell that the day of reckoning is upon us!”
Tom became alarmed by her remarks. His mother had spoken of such things. “I don't believe this is the final battle, Charity,” he replied.
“Well, the Pendletons think so!”
“Who?”
She held out a pamphlet that had arrived in the post. She had been keeping it in her Bible. It was a little worn, but the message was clear:
Friend—
DO YOU SEE HUMAN DISGRACE IN THE NEWSPAPER
AND WONDER WHAT WILL BECOME OF OUR WORLD?
DO YOU FEEL THAT THE GREAT MACHINE
WE CALL “PROGRESS”
IS RUNNING FULL THROTTLE WITHOUT A DRIVER?
YOU ARE NOT ALONE!
JOIN US IN AN EVENING OF EPIPHANY! REVELATION! JOY!
—The Pendletons
“What a gloomy evening it must be,” remarked Iris.
“I went last week, and I've never felt such happiness!” insisted Charity. “They gather in a big tent, and there's music, and people speak, and it all makes sense!”
“What does?” asked Tom.
“Well, this is part of God's plan for the end of the world. The streets will be washed of sin, the evil will be swallowed into the earth, and the meek shall rise to heaven.”
“I see,” Tom said. “You mean that the end of the world is a good thing?”
“The streets being washed of sin must appeal to you, darling,” said Iris to Charity. “You were always a tidy child.”
“And you've found some good friends?” asked Margaret.
Charity might have taken offense at her sisters' condescension if she had not been so happy.
“And, of course, you're playing the organ,” offered Margaret. “You were having such a difficult time with the churches.”
“They love my music,” Charity claimed. “I'm playing tonight. You should come.”
“No, thank you,” said Iris breezily.
Margaret, however, was looking at the pamphlet with interest. “Well,” she mused, “I do wonder what's to become of the world, but I'm not sure about the religious side.”
At that moment, the doorbell rang, and Margaret rose to answer it.
“Hello, Margaret!”
Peter Carnahan grinned. He was wearing a khaki serge uniform with brass buttons and puttees.
“Oh, Peter, you've enlisted,” she cried.
He beamed. “How do I look?”
Margaret's smile faded. There couldn't have been a more handsome soldier. But he was Iris's soldier.
Iris howled when she saw Carnahan in his uniform. She steered him out of the house, and as their feet crunched across the gravel in the direction of the Horvaths' orchard, she commanded, “Peter, you must make love to me in your uniform!”
Margaret stared after them, dismayed. Tom wanted to assuage her misery. “Margaret—” he began.
“How is it,” she interrupted, “that Iris has Peter Carnahan, and I… have you?” With that, she disappeared into the kitchen.
AMID THE APPLE and pear trees, Iris fell backwards on to the lush grass and issued Carnahan a sultry glance. “Take me!”
He stood before her gingerly. “Well, Iris.” He hesitated. “I don't want to spoil my uniform. After all, it belongs to the army.”
“But I want to be debauched by a soldier!” she pouted.
“But it's me, Iris,” he said.
“Oh, Peter,” she replied, “I'll imagine I'm being ravished by Achilles or Cedric the Saxon.”
“Who?” He frowned.
“The heroes of the ages!”
Because Iris was his first love, Carnahan assumed that all girls had such fantasies, giggled during climax, and sang “March of the Toreadors” afterwards. He agreed to keep his tunic on but hung his trousers and puttees on a branch.
This time, after Iris had uttered a delicious wail, Carnahan fussed over the grass stains on his tunic. She jumped up, blouse disheveled, and tried on his trousers. Then she danced across the orchard.
“Iris!” he cried. “I came to ask you a question!”
“Very well, Cedric.” She laughed.
“Will you marry me when I come back?”
Iris wrinkled her nose. “Gosh! That's an awfully serious question.” Her expression implied that he had broken some rule.
“I know,” he said. “But if I don't ask now, who knows what will happen? I'd like to think, when I'm in battle, that I'll have something to look forward to when I come back.”
Iris fell against him wearily, as if his sentiment had sapped the life from her small frame. “Of course, Peter.”
“You'll marry me then?” Carnahan replied.
Iris removed her spectacles and gave him her most earnest smile. “Of course we'll be married.” She slipped out of the trousers, handed them to him with a theatrical flourish. “I would not deny you; but by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion; and partly to save your life.”
Baffled, Carnahan grinned. “Oh, Iris,” he exclaimed, “you're a fine girl!”
THE CHAPELS GAVE Carnahan an enthusiastic send-off on his last day. The doctor took a photograph of him, in uniform, with Iris, and promised to send it to him. Arthur chased Carnahan's carriage while Tom, Margaret, and Iris watched the dust rise from the road in clouds.
“Do you think he'll come through safely?” asked Iris.
“I hope so,” Tom said with a frown. “War is madness.”
“It is, isn't it?” she sighed.
This provoked Margaret, who had been dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, to issue a bitter judgment: “Really, Iris,” she spluttered. “You're so cruel. If you loved him, why didn't you marry him before he left?”
Iris looked at her sister. “If you loved him, why didn't you marry him years ago? He'd been pining for you forever. All I did was fill a void, Margaret. He was yours for the taking!”
Leaving her sister to nurse her regrets, Iris strode back to the house.
“WHERE'S ARTHUR?” ASKED TOM, suddenly. The boy was nowhere to be seen, and the awful thought that he was riding away with Carnahan crossed his father's mind.
As the dust cleared, Arthur appeared, marching home with a stick perched like a rifle on his shoulder, his lower lip pushed out in a stern imitation of an infantryman.
“Arthur!” cried Tom. “Stop that!”
The boy dropped the stick and began to kick stones, watching his father from the corner of his eye like a chastened hound.
THE RALLY
BENEATH A BROAD WHITE TENT, THE PENDLETONS WELCOMED visitors with gentle smiles and open arms. They all wore black suits, with purple piping along the lapels and sleeves. The men had single lines of piping that ran down the outsides of their trouser legs. The women wore skirts hemmed four inches below the knee. Charity modified her uniform: she narrowed the waist, added lace to the rims of her shoes, and pleated the skirt so that she could manipulate the organ pedals.
Tom sent Margaret to investigate. “Perhaps then you will be able to reassure me that these people are sensible” he said. Margaret was glad to get out of the house; she couldn't bear to be alone with Iris these days.
Charity introduced Margaret to a few friends, then hurried over to the orchestra. A small tin pipe organ stood at the center of the stage.
“First time?” inquired one of the young women.
“Yes,” admitted Margaret.
“You're lucky, then,” said a man. “Isaiah Pound, our founder, is with us tonight. He's come from England. He's brilliant. You'll see!”
“Quite brilliant,” echoed another man.
“There are Pendletons on every continent now,” explained the young woman.
These weren't her sort of people, Margaret decided. They were pleasant enough, but she didn't like the uniforms and wondered why such a church group lacked a cross or a single picture of Jesus. In fact, the one picture visible was a poster of Isaiah Pound—a narrow, humorless face with a probing stare.
Although spare seats were everywhere, Margaret was encouraged to fill one at the front. Suddenly, the lights went down, and the organ began Bach's Toccata in D Minor. A man appeared onstage, his face illuminated by the podium light. His voice was tinny, but had a strangely compelling monotony.
If part of you is missing a loved one, a family member, a wife, a husband, then you are my friend.
If you see human folly on the front page of the newspaper and wonder what is to become of mankind, you are my friend.
If you wonder whether the great machine we call “progress” is going full throttle without a driver, you are my friend!
Attired in a black suit and a purple clerical collar, Isaiah Pound addressed his small audience as if it were a multitude. Margaret felt herself shaken by his appeal. She thought of Peter Carnahan and felt sorry for herself. She hadlost someone, someone very dear.
We have one another, my friends. We are not alone. We don't wander through the Valley of the Shadow of Death unassisted. God is with us. He has a plan for us all!
Isaiah Pound's thin black hair was shaven in a fringe that left an inch of bare scalp around his ears.
Voices cried out in agreement, and Pound extended his hands in appeal.
Welcome, friends. Tonight we share a common roof, we share the love of our fellow man, the respect for the vast unknown, and a deep, abiding awe of our Almighty Creator.
Perhaps He has spoken to you. He speaks to me, friends, all the time. And He asks, “What has become of man?” He asks, “Why do the weak suffer, the innocent perish, and the sinful prevail?” And He says, “Something must be done!”
The preacher leaned forward on his lectern and smiled.
Here is the good news, friends. He has told me that the end is near. He wants you, friend. The prophets are returning. A beautiful day is at hand. A day of cleansing—an end to smoky skies, filthy streets, the sinful, the callous, and the apostates who take His name in vain. We are invited into His shining kingdom, my friends, the undiscovered country, the kingdom of heaven. Join me, friends!
His hands reached out, and scores answered his appeal from the seats below. Suddenly Charity's ominous music filled the hall, accompanied by a chorus of heavenly voices—like angels preparing for the final conflict. Heaven was ripping apart, the trumpets sounded, and the end was a glorious, horrific, rapturous cacophony. Isaiah Pound turned to watch Charity play clearly impressed by her performance.
Finally, he delivered his appeal:
Join us! Prepare for the end, and rejoice!
THE SHEER EMOTIONAL FORCE of the event had everyone in tears. They held hands, swayed, and wept together. Margaret, however, felt marooned by her own skepticism. Her sister had obviously found something special here, among these people, but Margaret was a solitary holdout, unmoved, is
olated, consumed only by envy. When, she wondered, would she experience such joy?
“I'm so glad you came with me, Margaret,” Charity began, “I wanted someone else to see—”
“It's certainly exciting,” her sister interrupted.
“Oh, yes”—Charity smiled—“and ever since Mama died I've felt this empty spot inside me. I never understood quite what it was until I heard Isaiah Pound speak tonight. Margaret? I'm joining them. They like my playing; they want me to tour with them. I'm going to do it. There's nothing for me here,” said Charity. “What do you think Father will say?” “I can't imagine,” Margaret gasped.
LATER, HOWEVER, MARGARET TOLD her father about Charity's intentions and described the Pendletons to him. “They're even more emphatic than Catholics,” she said. “The hell and damnation theme seems particularly important to them.”
“Should I let her join them?” he asked.
Margaret was incensed by the very idea. “Absolutely not!”
But Charity pleaded her cause to her father with wrenching urgency. “They understand me,” she said. “They appreciate my music. I'm accepted by them. I fit in.” She added that she would never find such satisfaction in Gantrytown. “This is a chance for me to help save humanity, Papa!”
“What if you fail?” Tom replied. “What if humanity is a hopeless cause?”
“They need me,” she explained, “and I need them.”
“Are these people reputable? Trustworthy?”
“They read the Bible every day.”
Tom was tempted to challenge her reply, but he knew doing so would only fire his daughter's obstinacy. He hadn't been able to talk her out of playing at her mother's wake, and he doubted she could be talked out of performing for an appreciative audience. He wished for Lizzy's wisdom on the matter. She would have known what to do. Finally, he made a modest request: “Will you write? Promise me that?”
“Of course, Papa!”
Charity would have promised him anything to be allowed to pack her bags. So, as she packed, he stood, hands in pockets, asking questions, trying to reconcile himself, for his own peace of mind, to his daughter's departure.
