Complete Works of Howard Pyle

by Howard Pyle

  He aroused himself and jerked back his chair. He looked at his watch and saw that it was half-past twelve. Then he went up into the dining-room and ordered himself a breakfast. As he sat looking up, passively, at Norcott’s great picture of the nude Venus surrounded by a flock of naked, fluttering Cupids, he again inertly made up his mind that he would go down to Brookfield by the two-twenty train. “Anyhow,” he repeated to himself, “it will give me something to do.” Then the waiter came, bringing the cocktail that he had ordered.

  XII. THE ONE THING WE LACK

  GILDERMAN, WHEN HE left the club, found that he was in that peculiar psychological state that comes upon one now and then–a state in which one feels that one has not altogether determined to do a certain thing and yet finds one’s self in the very act of doing it. As it had been the day before, so now he found himself possessed by a strange impulsion that drove him forward as though not of his own volition. He walked briskly down towards the depot, but it did not seem to him that he even yet had made up his mind to embark upon the undertaking. Even when he found himself in the depot looking up at the time-clocks, and saw that the next train left in ten minutes–even when he had bought his ticket, it did not seem to him that he had actually determined to do what he was about to do. Such times of almost involuntary progression towards some object comes now and then to every man. It is as though there was some inner will-force that subjected the outer actions, urging them forward to carry the intention through to its conclusion. Gilderman’s mind did not actually resist the impulse that led him to go down to Brookfield. He yielded himself to going, but, at the same time, he did not yield a full and complete concurrence to that inner motive that impelled him to go. The cause of inspiration, though he did not know it, was very profound. It seemed to him that he simply allowed himself to drift as circumstances directed.

  When he reached the end of his journey, he found on inquiring at the station that He whom he sought was no longer there, but that He had gone down towards the city that morning. The station-master, who had a little leisure between the trains, told him that he could get a conveyance at the Walton House. There was, he said, a very good livery-stable connected with the hotel. He walked down to the end of the platform with Gilderman and pointed out to him the direction he was to take, and then he stood for a while looking after the young Roman as he walked away across the bridge and down the road.

  It was the same direction which Gilderman had taken the day before. Everything seemed strangely familiar to him. There was the bridge and the stream below it, and the open field and the distant row of frame houses. As he passed the tobacco-shop, the woman with whom he had spoken yesterday was standing in the doorway. She looked hard at him as he passed, and Gilderman felt a certain awkward consciousness that she recognized him.

  Just beyond the tobacco-shop he turned up a side street towards the hotel. He remembered now having seen it the day before. There were men standing on the rather ramshackle porch in front of the hotel, and they, too, stared hard at Gilderman as he went by. Again, as upon the day before, Gilderman recognized how distinctly out of place he was and how curious the hotel loungers must be regarding him. He was glad when he found himself in the open stable-yard out of their sight.

  A man, evidently the innkeeper–a short, stocky, gray-haired man–was standing watching one of the boys bathe the leg of an evidently lame horse. He looked up as Gilderman approached, but he did not move to meet him. Gilderman walked directly up to him and told him what he wanted.

  A team? Oh yes, he could have a team. He sized Gilderman up without at all knowing who he really was. Of course he would want something toppy. Then he called to a colored man to go tell Bob to put the little gray to the dog-cart. He held an unlighted cigar between his lips, and he rolled it every now and then from one side of his mouth to the other, looking rather curiously at Gilderman. “I suppose you’re a newspaper reporter?” he said, after giving Gilderman’s person a sweeping look.

  “No,” said Gilderman, “I’m not.” He volunteered nothing further, and there was that in his brief denial that did not encourage further question. Every now and then the innkeeper looked curiously at him, but he ventured no further inquiry. There was an indescribable remoteness about the young Roman that repelled, without effort and without offence, any approach at familiarity.

  Then they brought the gray horse out of the stable and began to hitch it to the dog-cart. It was, indeed, a neat, toppy little animal, and Gilderman looked upon it with pleasure. The innkeeper went over to see that all was right, pulling here and there at a strap or buckle, and Gilderman, taking out his cigar-case, lit a cigar. The gray sky was beginning to break up into patches of blue, and suddenly the sun shone out and down upon his back. It was very warm. Then the driver jumped to his seat and wheeled the team out into the stable-yard, and Gilderman mounted lightly to the place beside him.

  As the horse trotted briskly away down the road Gilderman saw, on a distant hill, a far-away view of the cemetery where he had been the day before. How strange that he should see it so soon again. It looked empty and deserted now. Then presently they had left it behind and were out into the open country. They drove for somewhat over two miles without seeing any sign of Him whom Gilderman sought. There they reached a little rise of ground just outside of a village, and, looking down the stretch of road, they could see that a crowd was gathered about a big stuccoed building, which Gilderman recognized as an inn.

  “That’s Him down yonder,” said the driver, breaking the long silence. The dog-cart was rattling briskly down the incline road, and suddenly Gilderman found that his heart was beating very quickly. He wondered, passively, why it beat so, and why he should feel so strange a qualm of nervousness. He was not accustomed to such emotions, and there seemed to be no reason for it now.

  The driver drew up sharply in front of the inn, and close to the crowd gathered in front of it. The building was a square, ugly, yellow thing, streaked and blotched with the beating of the weather. Here and there the stucco had broken away, showing the bricks beneath. A large sign ran along the whole front of the building. It, too, was weather-beaten, the letters partly obliterated.

  The crowd gathered and centred about the corner of the building, where there was a platform, and beyond it a stable-yard and some open sheds. Almost instantly Gilderman had seen the face of Him whom he sought. It was raised a little above the heads of the crowd, for He was sitting resting on the corner of the open platform that ran along the length of the hotel front. He was surrounded by His immediate disciples. The crowd stood about Him, partly in the road, partly upon the open porch. Some women and two or three men, apparently belonging to the house, were leaning out of the windows above looking down and talking together. There was a ceaseless buzz of talk–a ceaseless restlessness pervading the crowd. The central figure appeared to be altogether unconscious of it. He must by this time have grown used to being surrounded by such numbers of people. He seemed to be entirely oblivious of everything, and sat perfectly motionless, gazing remotely and abstractedly over the heads of the people. His pale eyes appeared blank and unseeing. His dress and shoes looked dusty and travel-worn. Suddenly a light came into his eyes, and He turned directly towards Gilderman. It seemed to Gilderman almost as though the face smiled–it looked recognition. He and the young man of great possessions remained looking at each other for a little space. Then Gilderman did not know whether the Man had or had not spoken, but he felt distinctly that he had been summoned as though by a spoken word. He advanced, hardly knowing what he was doing, and the crowd, seeing that he wished to speak, made way for him. He pushed forward and almost instantly found himself face to face with the Other. The profound and solemn eyes were gazing calmly and steadily at him. Gilderman had no hesitation as to what he desired to say. The gloomy feeling of the morning, his disappointment and distresses, came very keenly back into his mind as he stood there. The mundane circumstances of his life–his ever-present sense of power and of place–melted for th
e moment like wax before the flames. The young Roman stood before the poor carpenter as an entity before the Supreme. “Tell me,” he said, “what shall I do to earn eternal life?”

  “If you would enter into life,” said the Voice, “keep the Commandments.”

  “Which Commandments shall I keep?” asked the young man.

  “You know the Commandments,” said the Other. “Thou shalt do no murder. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not bear false witness. Honor thy father and thy mother. Love thy neighbor as thyself.”

  Gilderman thought for a moment. He felt a sudden flash of joy and satisfaction. Why had he not thought of it before. Yes, that was true, that was the way to be happy–to keep the Commandments–to consider the happiness of others, and not to desire all for himself. How simple it was. It seemed to him as though he had always known it. If he could only do that, then, indeed, he would be always happy, and life would, indeed, be worth living. Then the current of his thoughts suddenly changed their course. But was it true? After all, he had kept the Commandments–he recognized that he had; and yet he was not happy. He did not do violence to any man. He did not commit social vice. He did not defraud any man. He was not prone to gossip of people and to say ill of them behind their backs. He had been a good son to his father and mother, and he had been good to his wife’s father and mother. It seemed to him that he loved his neighbor as himself–that he did not try to get the better of any man, nor seek to defraud any man. Yes, he had obeyed all these things, and yet, in spite of that, he was not happy. He was not happy at this moment. Then he said to the Man: “I have kept all these Commandments from my youth up. What else is there I lack?”

  He knew that there was something that he lacked, but he could not tell what it was. The Other was still looking steadily at him. “If you would be perfect,” He said, “go and sell all that you have and give it to the poor, and then you shall have treasures in heaven. Then come and follow Me.”

  Some of the people began laughing. Gilderman knew that they were laughing at him, but he did not care. He stood perfectly still, with his mind turned inward. What the Man had said was true. He saw it all, as in a light of surpassing brightness. He was unhappy, not because of the things he lacked, but because he had so much. He saw it all as clear as day. It is the lack of things that produces happiness, not superabundance. A rich man, such as he, could never be happy. If he would be really happy, he must give up all. But could he give up all? Alas! he could give up nothing. God had laid the weight of a great abundance upon him, and he could not lay it aside. He could not give up that which he possessed, even for the sake of heavenly happiness and peace. He felt a feeling of great despair, and he wondered why he should feel it. Even yet, though he stood face to face with the Son of Man, he did not know that it was the divine truth searching the remoter recesses of his soul.

  He turned slowly and sorrowfully away. As he made his way back through the crowd he heard the Voice saying to those who stood about: “I tell you this for truth, that it is impossible for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. I say this to you, that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.”

  One of the men then said to Him: “Who, then, can be saved?”

  The Man did not answer immediately. He looked slowly around upon the little group about Him. “With man,” He said, “it is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”

  One of the disciples, a short, heavily built man of middle age, with a bald crown and grizzled beard and hair, said to Him: “We have forsaken all and have followed You. What are we to have for that?”

  Then the Voice said: “I tell you the truth when I say, that you who have followed Me into the regeneration, when the Son of Man shall sit on the throne of His glory, you also shall sit upon twelve thrones judging all the people of the world. For every one that leaves home, or brothers or sisters, or mother or father, or child or lands for My sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life. But many that are first shall be last, and the last shall be first.”

  Gilderman heard the clearly spoken words very distinctly. It is probable no man understood what was meant unless it were himself. He, having just beheld the inner parts of his own soul, saw, as it were, a scintilla of the light–but only a scintilla. Who is there, uninspired by the Son of Man Himself, who can understand the purport of that divine saying–so profound–an abyss of divine wisdom?

  God have mercy on us all! In these dreadful words lies the secret of heaven and of earth and of all that is and of all that is to come, and yet not one of us dares to open the gates of heavenly happiness. The world seems so near and that other supreme good so very remote. Gilderman saw something of the meaning of those divine words; it was only a glimpse of the truth, but again it filled his soul with despair. Once more he wondered dimly whether he felt that sudden qualm of depression because he had slept so ill the night before.

  What would he have thought if he had known that while he was thus seeking vainly after his own happiness–yes, at that very moment–his wife at home was wrestling with the pangs of straining agony.

  XIII. THE SHADOW OF DEATH

  IT WAS IN the waning afternoon that Gilderman let himself into the house. He looked about him. The hall servant was not there, and Gilderman began stripping off his own overcoat. He felt an unusual irritation that the man should at this time be neglecting his duties. He wondered where his wife was; the house appeared to be strangely silent. There was a lot of letters lying upon the tray on the hall table. Why had the man left them there instead of taking them up to the study? He gathered up the packet and began shifting the letters over. There were two from the capital and one from the Western metropolis. There was one from Rome–that must be from Kitty Van Tassle.

  Suddenly Mrs. Caiaphas came out from the dining-room. Gilderman had not expected to see her. Then instantly he saw that she had been crying. Her eyes were red and her face was tremulous. “Oh, Henry,” she cried out, “where have you been? We have been sending everywhere for you.” She came quickly forward as she spoke and caught him by the hands, holding them strenuously, almost convulsively.

  Gilderman stood as though turned to stone; the silence of the house had become suddenly leaden. His wife! What had happened? He stood still, holding the packet of letters unthinkingly in his hand. “What is it, mother?” he said, forcing himself to speak.

  “Oh, Henry,” said Mrs. Caiaphas, “do you know that you are a father? It is a little son. But poor, poor Florence. It was terrible!”

  “And she?” said Gilderman. He dared hardly whisper the words.

  “She is well. She has been asking for you all the while.”

  Gilderman’s heart leaped with a sudden poignant relief that was almost an agony. The time had come–had passed, and all was well; but to think that he should have been away at such a time! His mind flew back to what he had seen and done that day, and now he suddenly saw, as in a clear light, how mad had been the folly that had led him away from home at such a time and for such a purpose. Again he told himself that he would certainly go crazy if he tampered any more with such monstrous things, and once more he registered a vow that he would never again make such a fool of himself. Oh, what a fool he had been! He had crossed the hallway with Mrs. Caiaphas and they were going up the stairs together. “Where have you been, Henry?” she said.

  “Oh, I was called out of town unexpectedly,” he replied.

  Dr. Willington was drinking a glass of Maderia in the anteroom at the head of the stairs. There was a crumbled biscuit upon a plate on the table. The doctor turned to Gilderman with a beaming face. He reached out his hand, and Gilderman took it and pressed it almost convulsively. As he was about to loosen his hand he caught it again and pressed it, almost clinging to it. The doctor laughed.

  “May I see her?” said Gilderman.

  Again Dr. Willington laughed. “Not just yet,” he said; “the nurse is with her n
ow. You may see her presently.”

  Gilderman heard a sharp, piping wail somewhere in the distance. It was the voice of a newborn child. Mrs. Caiaphas had left him, going into the room beyond with the doctor, and he was left alone. He looked down and saw that he still held the packet of letters, and then again he ran them over. The Roman letter was for his wife. As he stood there he heard the bishop’s voice down in the hall. At the same moment Mrs. Caiaphas came out of the room again. She was followed by the nurse. “You may go in now, Henry, and see her,” she said. The white-capped, white-aproned nurse stood at the door. She was strange to Gilderman, but she smiled pleasantly at him, and he bowed to her as he entered.

  The room, partly darkened, was singularly quiet, singularly in order. It had a look as though no one was there. Then Gilderman saw his wife. The coverlet was spread smoothly over her, and her arms were lying passively upon it, the hands still and inert. Her eyes were turned towards him and she was smiling. There was a bundle lying on the bed beside her and a murmur came from it. Gilderman walked silently across the room. He knelt down beside the bed and took her hand in his and kissed it. Then he leaned over and kissed the soft lips. The assistant nurse, who had been standing silently with folded hands beside the window, passed noiselessly out of the room.

  “We have been sending everywhere for you,” the invalid said, in a low, weak voice. “I wanted you–oh, so much, but now I am glad you were not here.”

  Gilderman did not reply; again his mind flew back to what he had seen that afternoon and the day before, but now it did not cling to it but left it instantly. This was the only reality, this was his life–the other was not. He was still kneeling beside the bed holding her hand.

  Mrs. Gilderman reached out the other hand and softly raised the silk wrapping of the bundle beside her. Gilderman saw the strange, congested, shapeless little face, but it did not arouse any distinct emotion in him.