Clara did not speak for some moments, and then she summed up a turmoil of thoughts in a profound sigh. “Well, I don’t like it! I thought it was bad enough having a man, even on the outskirts of my acquaintance, abandon his wife; but now Ben Halleck, who has been like a brother to me, to have him mixed up in such an affair in the way he is, it’s intolerable!”
“I agree with you,” said Atherton, playing with his spoon. “You know how I hate anything that sins against order, and this whole thing is disorderly. It’s intolerable, as you say. But we must bear our share of it. We’re all bound together. No one sins or suffers to himself in a civilized state, — or religious state; it’s the same thing. Every link in the chain feels the effect of the violence, more or less intimately. We rise or fall together in Christian society. It’s strange that it should be so hard to realize a thing that every experience of life teaches. We keep on thinking of offences against the common good as if they were abstractions!”
“Well, one thing,” said Clara, “I shall always think unnecessarily shocking and disgraceful about it. And that is Ben’s going out with her on this journey. I don’t see how you could allow that, Eustace.”
“Yes,” said Atherton, after a thoughtful silence, “it is shocking. The only consolation is that it is not unnecessarily shocking. I’m afraid that it’s necessarily so. When any disease of soul or body has gone far enough, it makes its own conditions, and other things must adjust themselves to it. Besides, no one knows the ugliness of the situation but Halleck himself. I don’t see how I could have interfered; and upon the whole I don’t know that I ought to have interfered, if I could. She would be helpless without him; and he can get no harm from it. In fact, it’s part of his expiation, which must have begun as soon as he met her again after he came home.”
Clara was convinced, but not reconciled. She only said, “I don’t like it.”
Her husband did not reply; he continued musingly: “When the old man made that final appeal to her jealousy, — all that there is really left, probably, of her love for her husband, — and she responded with a face as wicked as his, I couldn’t help looking at Halleck—”
“Oh, poor Ben! How did he take it? It must have scared, it must have disgusted him!”
“That’s what I had expected. But there was nothing in his face but pity. He understood, and he pitied her. That was all.”
Clara rose, and turned to the window, where she remained looking through her tears at the gulls on the shallow. It seemed much more than twenty-four hours since she had taken leave of Marcia and the rest at the station, and saw them set out on their long journey with its uncertain and unimaginable end. She had deeply sympathized with them all, but at the same time she had felt very keenly the potential scandalousness of the situation; she shuddered inwardly when she thought what if people knew; she had always revolted from contact with such social facts as their errand involved. She got Olive aside for a moment, and asked her, “Don’t you hate it, Olive? Did you ever dream of being mixed up in such a thing? I should die, — simply die!”
“I shall not think of dying, unless we fail,” answered Olive. “And, as for hating it, I haven’t consulted my feelings a great deal; but I rather think I like it.”
“Like going out to be a witness in an Indiana divorce case!”
“I don’t look at it in that way, Clara. It’s a crusade to me; it’s a holy war; it’s the cause of an innocent woman against a wicked oppression. I know how you would feel about it, Clara; but I never was as respectable as you are, and I’m quite satisfied to do what Ben, and father, and Mr. Atherton approve. They think it’s my duty, and I am glad to go, and to be of all the use I can. But you shall have my heartfelt sympathy through all, Clara, for your involuntary acquaintance with our proceedings.”
“Olive! You know that I’m proud of your courage and Ben’s goodness, and that I fully appreciate the sacrifice you’re making. And I’m not ashamed of your business: I think it’s grand and sublime, and I would just as soon scream it out at the top of my voice, right here in the Albany depot.”
“Don’t,” said Olive. “It would frighten the child.” She had Flavia by the hand, and she made the little girl her special charge throughout the journey. The old Squire seemed anxious to be alone, and he restlessly escaped from Marcia’s care. He sat all the first day apart, chewing upon some fragment of wood that he had picked up, and now and then putting up a lank hand to rasp his bristling jaw; glancing furtively at people who passed him, and lapsing into his ruminant abstraction. He had been vexed that they did not start the night before; and every halt the train made visibly afflicted him. He would not leave his place to get anything to eat when they stopped for refreshment, though he hungrily devoured the lunch that Marcia brought into the car for him. At New York he was in a tumult of fear lest they should lose the connecting train on the Pennsylvania Road; and the sigh of relief with which he sank into his seat in the sleeping-car expressed the suffering he had undergone. He said he was not tired, but he went to bed early, as if to sleep away as much of the time as he could.
When Halleck came into their car, the next morning, he found Marcia and her father sitting together, and looking out of the window at the wooded slopes of the Alleghanies through which the train was running. The old man’s impatience had relaxed; he let Marcia lay her hand on his, and he answered her with quiet submission, when she spoke now and then of the difference between these valleys, where the wild rhododendrons were growing, and the frozen hollows of the hills at home, which must be still choked with snow.
“But, oh! how much I would rather see them!” she said at last with a homesick throb.
“Well,” he assented, “we can go right back — afterwards.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Well, sir, good morning,” said the old man to Halleck, “we are getting along, sir. At this rate, unless our calculations were mistaken, we shall be there by midnight. We are on time, the porter tells me.”
“Yes, we shall soon be at Pittsburg,” said Halleck, and he looked at Marcia, who turned away her face. She had not spoken of the object of the journey to him since they had left Boston, and it had not been so nearly touched by either of them before.
He could see that she recoiled from it, but the old man, once having approached it, could not leave it. “If everything goes well, we shall have our grip on that fellow’s throat in less than forty-eight hours.” He looked down mechanically at his withered hands, lean and yellow like the talons of a bird, and lifted his accipitral profile with a predatory alertness. “I didn’t sleep very well the last part of the night, but I thought it all out. I sha’n’t care whether I get there before or after judgment is rendered; all I want is to get there before he has a chance to clear out. I think I shall be able to convince Bartley Hubbard that there is a God in Israel yet! Don’t you be anxious, Marcia; I’ve got this thing at my fingers’ ends, as clear as a bell. I intend to give Bartley a little surprise!”
Marcia kept her face averted, and Halleck relinquished his purpose of sitting down with them, and went forward to the state-room that Marcia and Olive had occupied with the little girl. He tapped on the door, and found his sister dressed, but the child still asleep.
“What is the matter, Ben?” she asked. “You don’t look well. You oughtn’t to have undertaken this journey.”
“Oh, I’m all right. But I’ve been up a good while, with nothing to eat. That old man is terrible. Olive!”
“Her father? Yes, he’s a terrible old man!”
“It sickened me to hear him talk, just now, — throwing out his threats of vengeance against Hubbard. It made me feel a sort of sympathy for that poor dog. Do you suppose she has the same motive? I couldn’t forgive her!” he said, with a kind of passionate weakness. “I couldn’t forgive myself!”
“We’ve got nothing to do with their motive, Ben. We are to be her witnesses for justice against a wicked wrong. I don’t believe in special providences, of course; but it does seem as
if we had been called to this work, as mother would say. Your happening to go home with her, that night, and then that paper happening to come to you, — doesn’t it look like it?”
“It looks like it, yes.”
“We couldn’t have refused to come. That’s what consoles me for being here this minute. I put on a bold face with Clara Atherton, yesterday morning at the depot; but I was in a cold chill, all the time. Our coming off, in this way, on such an errand, is something so different from the rest of our whole life! And I do like quiet, and orderly ways, and all that we call respectability! I’ve been thinking that the trial will be reported by some such interviewing wretch as Bartley himself, and that we shall figure in the newspapers. But I’ve concluded that we mustn’t care. It’s right, and we must do it. I don’t shut my eyes to the kind of people we’re mixed up with. I pity Marcia, and I love her — poor, helpless, unguided thing! — but that old man is terrible! He’s as cruel as the grave where he thinks he’s been wronged, and crueller where he thinks she’s been wronged. You’ve forgiven so much, Ben, that you can’t understand a man who forgives nothing; but I can, for I’m a pretty good hater, myself. And Marcia’s just like her father, at times. I’ve seen her look at Clara Atherton as if she could kill her!”
The little girl stirred in her berth, and then lifted herself on her hands, and stared round at them through her tangled golden hair. “Is it morning, yet?” she asked sleepily. “Is it to-morrow?”
“Yes; it’s to-morrow, Flavia,” said Olive. “Do you want to get up?”
“And is next day the day after to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s only one day till I shall see papa. That’s what mamma said. Where is mamma?” asked the child, rising to her knees, and sweeping back her hair from her face with either hand.
“I will go and send her to you,” said Halleck.
At Pittsburg the Squire was eager for his breakfast, and made amends for his fast of the day before. He ate grossly of the heterogeneous abundance of the railroad restaurant, and drank two cups of coffee that in his thin, native air would have disordered his pulse for a week. But he resumed his journey with a tranquil strength that seemed the physical expression of a mind clear and content. He was willing and even anxious to tell Halleck what his theories and plans were; but the young man shrank from knowing them. He wished only to know whether Marcia were privy to them, and this, too, he shrank from knowing.
XXXIX.
They left Pittsburg under the dun pall of smoke that hangs perpetually over the city, and ran out of a world where the earth seemed turned to slag and cinders, and the coal grime blackened even the sheathing from which the young leaves were unfolding their vivid green. Their train twisted along the banks of the Ohio, and gave them now and then a reach of the stream, forgetful of all the noisy traffic that once fretted its waters, and losing itself in almost primitive wildness among its softly rounded hills. It is a beautiful land, and it had, even to their loath eyes, a charm that touched their hearts. They were on the borders of the illimitable West, whose lands stretch like a sea beyond the hilly Ohio shore; but as yet this vastness, which appalls and wearies all but the born Westerner, had not burst upon them; they were still among heights and hollows, and in a milder and softer New England.
“I have a strange feeling about this journey,” said Marcia, turning from the window at last, and facing Halleck on the opposite seat. “I want it to be over, and yet I am glad of every little stop. I feel like some one that has been called to a death-bed, and is hurrying on and holding back with all her might, at the same time. I shall have no peace till I am there, and then shall I have peace?” She fixed her eyes imploringly on his. “Say something to me, if you can! What do you think?”
“Whether you will — succeed?” He was confounding what he knew of her father’s feeling with what he had feared of hers.
“Do you mean about the lawsuit? I don’t care for that! Do you think he will hate me when he sees me? Do you think he will believe me when I tell him that I never meant to leave him, and that I’m sorry for what I did to drive him away?”
She seemed to expect him to answer, and he answered as well as he could: “He ought to believe that, — yes, he must believe it.”
“Then all the rest may go,” she said. “I don’t care who gains the case. But if he shouldn’t believe me, — if he should drive me away from him, as I drove him from me—” She held her breath in the terror of such a possibility, and an awe of her ignorance crept over Halleck. Apparently she had not understood the step that Bartley had taken, except as a stage in their quarrel from which they could both retreat, if they would, as easily as from any other dispute; she had not realized it as a final, an almost irrevocable act on his part, which could only be met by reprisal on hers. All those points of law which had been so sharply enforced upon her must have fallen blunted from her longing to be at one with him; she had, perhaps, not imagined her defence in open court, except as a sort of public reconciliation.
But at another time she recurred to her wrongs in all the bitterness of her father’s vindictive purpose. A young couple entered the car at one of the country stations, and the bride made haste to take off her white bonnet, and lay her cheek on her husband’s shoulder, while he passed his arm round her silken waist, and drew her close to him on the seat, in the loving rapture which is no wise inconvenienced by publicity on our railroad trains. Indeed, after the first general recognition of their condition, no one noticed them except Marcia, who seemed fascinated by the spectacle of their unsophisticated happiness; it must have recalled the blissful abandon of her own wedding journey to her. “Oh, poor fool!” she said to Olive. “Let her wait, and it will not be long before she will know that she had better lean on the empty air than on him. Some day, he will let her fall to the ground, and when she gathers herself up all bruised and bleeding — But he hasn’t got the all-believing simpleton to deal with that he used to have; and he shall pay me back for all — drop by drop, and ache for ache!”
She was in that strange mental condition into which women fall who brood long upon opposing purposes and desires. She wished to be reconciled, and she wished to be revenged, and she recurred to either wish for the time as vehemently as if the other did not exist. She took Flavia on her knee, and began to prattle to her of seeing papa to-morrow, and presently she turned to Olive, and said: “I know he will find us both a great deal changed. Flavia looks so much older, — and so do I. But I shall soon show him that I can look young again. I presume he’s changed too.”
Marcia held the little girl up at the window. They had now left the river hills and the rolling country beyond, and had entered the great plain which stretches from the Ohio to the Mississippi; and mile by mile, as they ran southward and westward, the spring unfolded in the mellow air under the dull, warm sun. The willows were in perfect leaf, and wore their delicate green like veils caught upon their boughs; the may-apples had already pitched their tents in the woods, beginning to thicken and darken with the young foliage of the oaks and hickories; suddenly, as the train dashed from a stretch of forest, the peach orchards flushed pink beside the brick farmsteads. The child gave a cry of delight, and pointed; and her mother seemed to forget all that had gone before, and abandoned herself to Flavia’s joy in the blossoms, as if there were no trouble for her in the world.
Halleck rose and went into the other car; he felt giddy, as if her fluctuations of mood and motive had somehow turned his own brain. He did not come back till the train stopped at Columbus for dinner. The old Squire showed the same appetite as at breakfast: he had the effect of falling upon his food like a bird of prey; and as soon as the meal was despatched he went back to his seat in the car, where he lapsed into his former silence and immobility, his lank jaws working with fresh activity upon the wooden toothpick he had brought away from the table. While they waited for a train from the north which was to connect with theirs, Halleck walked up and down the vast, noisy station with Olive and Marcia
, and humored the little girl in her explorations of the place. She made friends with a red-bird that sang in its cage in the dining-hall, and with an old woman, yellow, and wrinkled, and sunken-eyed, sitting on a bundle tied up in a quilt beside the door, and smoking her clay pipe, as placidly as if on her own cabin threshold. “‘Pears like you ain’t much afeard of strangers, honey,” said the old woman, taking her pipe out of her mouth, to fill it. “Where do you live at when you’re home?”
“Boston,” said the child, promptly. “Where do you live?”
“I used to live in Old Virginny. But my son, he’s takin’ me out to Illinoy, now. He’s settled out there.” She treated the child with the serious equality which simple old people use with children; and spat neatly aside in resuming her pipe. “Which o’ them ladies yender is your maw, honey?”
“My mamma?”
The old woman nodded.
Flavia ran away and laid her hand on Marcia’s dress, and then ran back to the old woman.
“That your paw, with her?” Flavia looked blank, and the old woman interpreted, “Your father.”
“No! We’re going out to see papa, — out West. We’re going to see him to-morrow, and then he’s coming back with us. My grandpa is in that car.”
The old woman now laid her folded arms on her knees, and smoked obliviously. The little girl lingered a moment, and then ran off laughing to her mother, and pulled her skirt. “Wasn’t it funny, mamma? She thought Mr. Halleck was my papa!” She hung forward by the hold she had taken, as children do, and tilted her head back to look into her mother’s face. “What is Mr. Halleck, mamma?”
“What is he?” The group halted involuntarily.
“Yes, what is he? Is he my uncle, or my cousin, or what? Is he going out to see papa, too? What is he going for? Oh, look, look!” The child plucked away her hand, and ran off to join the circle of idle men and half-grown boys who were forming about two shining negroes with banjos. The negroes flung their hands upon the strings with an ecstatic joy in the music, and lifted their black voices in a wild plantation strain. The child began to leap and dance, and her mother ran after her.
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 183
