To Look and Pass

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Livy was more carefree than I had seen her since my return. Her girlhood seemed to return as she was released from the pressure of her father and his house. She became almost frivolous. She appeared bent on drawing Dan out; almost all her remarks were addressed to him, and the two laughed continually as if at some private joke. She made foolish gestures, tossed her head, giggled and shrieked. About her, too, I felt a feverish gaiety, as if she were making merry in the face of something that she knew was about to overwhelm her.

  Beatrice was more sedate, though she never stopped smiling. She would let her russet eyes wander minutely in turn from each of us. They roved in a circle, never missing a face, a gesture or an expression. Her white teeth glittered between her red lips; the sun brightened her already bright hair, threw golden shadows on her white flesh. She leaned against a tree trunk, her hands, beautiful hands, in her lap, her shoulders square and erect; about her was an air of serenity and poise which made me reluctantly admire her. I, myself, laughed and joked with all of them, but I still felt uneasy. There was something here I could not understand, though I had an obscure and discomfited feeling that there was much I ought to understand, and that the understanding would not bring me much happiness. I tried to find the answer in Livy’s glowing face and aimless gestures, in the quickness of her always quick tongue, in the sense of release and energy that I felt about her.

  She was talking to Dan eagerly, when Beatrice stood up, brushed mold from her skirt, and then, letting her hands fall to her sides, stood on the windy hilltop and looked over the valley. Somehow, I knew that she saw not only the valley, but the world and all the things that were in it. The wind blew her clothing backwards from her figure, so that she seemed like a figurehead at the bow of a ship, the line of breast and hip and throat and leg caught in the carving of the wind. She had removed her hat, and the wind blew back her hair also, and I thought grudgingly that nothing could be so pure and clear and lifted as the outline of her profile against the shining blueness of the sky. The others looked at her and stopped their laughing and chatter. I glanced at Livy; her face had lost all animation, and it was somewhat pinched and withered, as though she were consumed by a mysterious anxiety and pain. She was gazing at Beatrice searchingly, with an intensity that was compelling.

  “What are you looking at, Bee?” she asked in a voice that had something forced in it in spite of its apparent lightness.

  Beatrice continued to look over the valley to the wall of hills beyond it. She turned to us after a moment, laughing, smoothing down her reddish pompadour with her slender hands.

  “I was just thinking what a fool Jesus was,” she said.

  An embarrassment fell upon Dan and myself, and we peeped furtively at each other. I had discarded all religion youthfully, in the laboratory and schoolroom as did most young medical students. Dan, I knew, had no religion. Yet, with masculine inconsistency, we felt embarrassed at any blasphemy uttered by the so-called gentler sex. We also felt embarrassed for Livy, a minister’s daughter, and after that one peep at each other, we peeped at Livy. To my surprise and rather obscure annoyance, Livy did not look shocked.

  “Why?” she asked casually.

  “Why?” Bee raised her clear brows and laughed lightly. “According to the story He was offered the world and refused it. The world! Yes, He must have been a fool!”

  I waited for Livy to utter some grave platitude. God knows she had heard plenty at home. She would not have to make a conscious effort to recall one; it would have welled automatically from memory. I would have felt much better had she quoted something pious and sedate, however much I would have smiled internally at it. Even the most villainous atheist, I believe, likes to think that his wife prays regularly. But Livy uttered no platitude. She merely continued to regard Beatrice thoughtfully.

  “I’ve thought that myself, sometimes,” she said slowly, as though thinking over each word she said. “The world is very beautiful. We in South Kenton don’t know much about it. But perhaps He was like Dan, here. Perhaps He knew all the world by a sort of instinct, and didn’t find it worth the wanting.”

  I was astounded. What did she know of Dan and what he thought? More than I, it seemed. I was whipped by an unreasonable annoyance and anger. I did not understand it myself. This was still in the nineties, and such loose, free talk on the part of women outraged some part of my mind that had not been touched by theory and science and schoolbooks. I think it was that part of my mind that whipped up the anger. I don’t know. I still don’t know, and I don’t want to probe into it too much. I am getting old now and want peace, even peace that is based on something that does not exist.

  “You girls don’t know what you’re talking about!” I burst out irately. Even in my irritation I noticed that the glance Beatrice gave Livy was unfriendly and bitterly cold. “You talk like children! You haven’t been outside this piddling little town, yet you try to assume wisdom and understanding you don’t possess. Jesus knew what wonders there were in the world, and what glories and powers, but He would have none of them, not one of them! They weren’t worth it!”

  “Worth what?” Beatrice’s voice was cool, like an uncomfortably cold finger laid hard on a sick hot forehead.

  “Why, worth anything,” I stammered, angry at the heat in my face and voice. “Worth giving up—I mean, worth abandoning—peace and comprehension—for. Besides, He could have had the world if He had wanted it. He didn’t need Satan to offer it to Him. He had other things, love and—and—well, everything.”

  I was humiliatingly conscious that I had not expressed myself, and more humiliated that I was not clear about what I wished to express. I could have murdered Beatrice for her light laugh, her humorously glinting eyes.

  “What a lot the little boy knows!” she exclaimed. “He’s been everywhere and seen everything! He knows what it means to be bad, and feel sorry. He’s seen all the tinsel and knows that home, sweet home, is the best thing after all.”

  I hated her more than ever. Her allusion to “the little boy” was not mere rhetoric and humor, I knew. My stature, shorter than that of most boys my age, was always humiliating to me. She had the uncanny ability to touch the sorest spots with an acid-tipped finger. Livy gave me a gently pitying glance, for which I confess I was not at all grateful.

  “I think what Jim is trying to say can’t just be put into words,” she said. “It’s something you know, without being able to say. I know what you mean, Bee. I don’t agree with all of it, but with some of it.” She turned to Dan, and her face seemed to melt and glow. “You know what we all mean, Dan. But what do you think?”

  He grinned. During all the conversation he had seemed to be detached and vaguely interested, without being touched in the slightest.

  “Well, here’s what I think,” he said, and quoted:

  Waste not your hour, nor in the vain pursuit

  Of this and that endeavor and dispute.

  Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape

  Than sadden after none, or bitter fruit.

  I was too young then to understand that completely, and I believe that Livy, though she understood more than I did, still felt the quotation somewhat obscure. But Beatrice understood. She shot Dan an evil glance, though she continued to smile.

  “I expect you ought to know all about the ‘fruitful Grape,’” she said.

  He looked at her tranquilly, though his brows twitched as though at some twinge. “Why? Because I take a drink occasionally? Or because my dad used to see pink crocodiles once in a while?”

  She shrugged. Her thrust had not hit him.

  “You’re pretty dull, Dan. That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  Suddenly I felt something unclean and menacing in the atmosphere. It disturbed me. I have always detested undercurrents. They always seem about to suck under all clearness and cleanliness. But Dan merely lifted his shoulders and his brows. He put a blade of grass between his teeth and began to hum tunelessly. Livy looked from Beatrice to Dan, and kept on l
ooking. She had a somewhat frightened expression. Then, as though her innate propriety and tact came to the rescue, she changed the subject, though I could see that she was distracted.

  “Did you know, Jim, that Amelia Burnett is engaged to Jack Rugby?” Beatrice asked. “Mr. Burnett wasn’t for it at all until that little strip of land Jack’s stepmother owned came in with three big gaswells. The other wells don’t amount to anything. Now, she’s just flooding in money. She’s gotten to be rather stingy, and old Mortimer doesn’t get much. I expect, though, that he wouldn’t know what to do with it, anyway. But she is awfully fond of Jack, and so he will come into the wells. She just loads him down with money. Well, old man Burnett isn’t making any more objections, and Amelia and Jack are going to be married in September.”

  I was interested. I talked about the engagement to Livy and made some silly and laughing remark. I glanced at Dan and Beatrice, expecting their laughter, also. Dan smiled idly. But when I looked at Beatrice, I was startled. Her face had become black with fury, not with the violent and explosive fury of other natures, but with a fury that was pent and dared not burst forth. She was staring at Livy, and then I knew that she hated Livy with a homicidal hatred. I was so startled and frightened at that that I did not stop to wonder then why she should feel her evident fury. She saw me look at her; I could see the visible efforts she made to control herself as she caught my eye. By sheer force of will she smoothed her face, made it bland and secret again.

  “I expect the money is the only reason why that little greedy toad of an Amelia looks at Jack Rugby,” she said lightly. “Ugh, with her green eyes and green-white face and washed-out hair! Mealy-mouthed little beast, all new dresses and mincings and bangles.” She smiled, though there was murder in her voice.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Dan casually. “Amelia’s not so bad. And Jack’s a fine boy. Looks like John L. Sullivan; lots of muscle, but brains, too. I always thought old Mortimer didn’t appreciate him. Jack’ll make three dollars bloom where one bloomed before. I thought, though, that he had his eye for awhile on Mary Knowles.”

  Beatrice laughed gaily. “Mary Knowles! Her mama has made her half a man already! Did you see Mrs. Knowles since you came back, Jim? Wears boots like a man, now, and they say she smokes like an old trooper, and swears, and rides her horse astride as she goes over the country to see that her mortgages are coming along all right. She even cut her hair short, and they do say that one of these days she’s going to sprout whiskers, even if she is an old woman now. And Mary’s just as bad; she’s taller than her mother and hasn’t a woman’s figure at all. Jack wouldn’t marry her any more than he would marry a man.”

  I thought I had caught the drift now, and was greatly relieved, for Dan. I had a score or two to pay Beatrice, and prepared to pay it.

  “If Jack wants Amelia it’s because he believes that no other girl in South Kenton’s as good as she is,” I said smoothly. “He’s a fine fellow, as Dan says, and has all the money he wants. He has an eye, too. If he likes a girl it’s because she’s worth liking; if he doesn’t look at a girl, I expect it’s because she’s not worth a look.”

  Yes, I thought with enjoyment, I must have gotten the drift, for one moment a baleful light flared across Beatrice’s face as she looked at me. But the next instant the balefulness had gone, and she was smiling sweetly.

  “Well, let’s hope they will be happy,” she said, and there was such a convincing ring in her voice that I became confused and wondered if I had understood after all. Beatrice had retreated once more into her secrecy and blandness; behind it, she looked out at us as from a dark room, unseen, while we stood in glaring light exposed to sharp eyes.

  The red sunset was burning through the trees on the hill across the valley, and we all stood up, brushing ourselves free from mold and little blades of grass. Livy exclaimed mournfully when she discovered a stain on her skirt. Poor girl, she had few clothes enough in those days, and this stain was a calamity. Beatrice was instantly all solicitude; with sisterly concern she rubbed Livy’s skirt, shook her head, and exclaimed. “Now, Livy, don’t take on so. Just rub it lightly with a mite of soap and a little cold water, and it won’t affect the color at all. Then hang it up to dry. It’ll be all right afterwards.” She smiled, her beautiful head on one side as she looked at Livy, and patted Livy’s shoulder. If I had not seen that one appalling and unguarded look, I would have softened. But all I wanted to do now was to take Livy away from Beatrice’s proximity, to run with her as from some noxious gas.

  We went down the hill, the girls slowly because of the high heels on their ribbon-tied slippers. We were almost at the bottom when Livy shrieked faintly and lurched forward. Dan was closer to her than I, and he caught her in his strong arms. She must have been enduring a strain during the last hour, for even while she laughed apologetically, tears rushed into her eyes as she looked up into Dan’s face, and they spilled over her cheeks, which had suddenly turned white. He held her gently and kindly. Beatrice took her arm, and, greatly disturbed, I came back to them. Livy seemed to be in great pain.

  “I expect I’ve turned my ankle,” she stammered, smiling through the tears that did not seem to want to stop. She accepted my arm; I was astonished to find that she was trembling. She half turned her face from me, and I could see the fine violet veins distended in her pulsing throat.

  “Here, Bee, you’d best let me take her other arm,” said Dan gently. “Jim and I’ll help her down the rest of the way.” Beatrice released Livy slowly, and Dan took Livy’s arm. I said something to him about being careful. Beatrice had withdrawn a step or two from us, and I was arrested in mid-speech by the look upon her face. It was gloating; her eyes literally danced, and they were dilated as though with an inner and satanic glee, almost inhuman, as if she were enjoying an obscene joke beyond our comprehension.

  She thinks all pain is funny, I thought with hatred. With great tenderness we helped poor white-faced Livy down the rest of the hill. She did not limp much; her pallor and trembling and agitation seemed all out of proportion to her injury.

  “How on earth are you going to pedal back to town?” asked Dan with concern as we reached the bottom.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” I said importantly, being an embryo doctor. “The thing to do with a sprained ankle, if it isn’t too bad and the ligaments aren’t torn, is to use it actively. That keeps the blood circulating, and prevents swelling and lameness.” I urged Livy to get on her bicycle; I noticed that the back of her hands were beaded with tiny drops of water. I wanted to look at the ankle, but she hurriedly refused and said she was all right now.

  We started out slowly. I rode beside Livy, carefully keeping pace with her. Gradually, as she used her ankle, she gathered speed. She began to talk to me in her usual fluent fashion, but did not look at me directly. I saw that her lips were pale and smooth, and that her face did not regain its earlier color. Dan and Beatrice rode together. They were talking easily, and I heard Dan’s amused grunt once or twice at some witty sally of the girl’s. She seemed in high good temper, as though she had repaid a bitter thrust. I know now that she hated all of us, even Livy. I knew that nothing we said or did was taken at its face value, by Beatrice, and that under everything her venomous mind was seeking something ulterior, something suspicious and unclean.

  The twilight had definitely set in when we reached Livy’s house. The church bell was ringing, and Livy regretfully and fearfully said she expected her father was already in church, and what on earth would he think about her?

  “Let him think. It’ll do him good for once,” said Beatrice consolingly. “Come on, Livy, I’ll take you in, and we’ll bathe that ankle and rest it. Young doctors,” she added with a merrily malicious glance at me, “may have new theories, but they don’t know exactly everything.”

  Dan was silent; he had dismounted, and was leaning negligently against the gate. Beatrice shot him a fanged look, though she smiled. “Well, now, Dan, you can run along home, and think about your fruitful G
rape,’” she said. I was astonished to see Dan jerk upright at this, and to see his tranquil face turn a dull scarlet. His mouth twitched. “Your ‘grape,’” said Bee, “is hanging too long on the vine, I’m afraid. It’s about time you picked it and ate it.”

  “Better to let it get ripe than to eat it green,” I retorted, without a blessed idea of what I. was saying. Beatrice was the only one who guessed that there was only confusion behind my ambiguity, and even in the gathering dimness I saw the enjoyment in her face.

  I ignored her with youthful but unconvincing dignity, and turned to Livy. She was wan and beaten, and glanced at us in turn with an aimless smile. I instructed her somewhat pompously as to what to do for her ankle, and she kept on nodding. I noticed, with some irritation, that all the time I talked she looked at Dan.

  The girls went into the house together, and Dan and I wheeled away side by side. He seemed disinclined for conversation.

  “That Bee,” I burst out as we rolled along through the quiet and dimly peaceful streets, “ought to be shot. One of these days someone’s going to murder her. I’d like to be that someone. And maybe I will. Maybe when I’ve got my degree, and I’m practicing around here, I can slip a little cyanide into her coffee without being detected.”

  He was silent so long that I had begun to think he had not been listening. Then he said mildly:

  “Oh, I don’t know. Bee says a lot of mean things, but she couldn’t be her mother’s daughter and be really vicious.”

  I was sickened at this. Could it be that he was “sweet” on her? I wanted to warn him, I wanted to shout out to him his danger. But I could say nothing. There was something about his silence that repudiated me, that held me warningly at a distance, in spite of our friendship.

  Chapter Eight

  Mortimer Rugby had written a vast amount of poetry in his life, and all of it was pretty bad. But in the poor, synthetic glass gems of his poetry there glittered one clear crystal jewel, pure as water, simple as love, and lovely as a pool under moonlight.