She raised her cigarette and expelled smoke. He lounged nearer, his expensive jacket, which had evidently had no attention since he bought it, sagging to the thrust of his heavy hands, shaping his fat thighs. His eyes were bold and lazy, clear as a goat’s. She got of him an impression of aped intelligence imposed on an innate viciousness; the cat that walks by himself.
‘Who are your people, Mr Jones?’ she asked after a while.
‘I am the world’s little brother. I probably have a bar sinister in my ‘scrutcheon. In spite of me, my libido seems to be a complex regarding decency.’
What does that mean? she wondered. ‘What is your escutcheon, then?’
‘One newspaper-wrapped bundle couchant and rampant, one doorstep stone, on a field noir and damned froid. Device: Quand mangerai-je?’
‘Oh. A foundling.’ She smoked again.
‘I believe that is the term. It is too bad we are contemporary: you might have found the thing yourself. I would not have thrown you down.’
‘Thrown me down?’
‘You can never tell just exactly how dead these soldiers are, can you? You think you have him and then the devil reveals as much idiocy as a normal sane person, doesn’t he?’
She skilfully pinched the coal from her cigarette end and flipped the stub in a white twinkling arc, grinding the coal under her toe. ‘If that was an implied compliment—’
‘Only fools imply compliments. The wise man comes right out with it, point-blank. Imply criticism — unless the criticized is not within ear-shot.’
‘It seems to me that is a rather precarious doctrine for one who is — if you will pardon me — not exactly a combative sort.’
‘Combative?’
‘Well, a fighting man, then. I can’t imagine you lasting very long in an encounter with — say Mr Gilligan.’
‘Does that imply that you have taken Mr Gilligan as a — protector?’
‘No more than it implies that I expect compliments from you. For all your intelligence, you seem to have acquired next to no skill with women.’
Jones, remote and yellowly unfathomable, stared at her mouth. ‘For instance?’
‘For instance. Miss Saunders,’ she said, wickedly. ‘You seem to have let her get away from you, don’t you?’
‘Miss Saunders,’ repeated Jones, counterfeiting surprise, admiring the way she had turned the tables on him without reverting to sex, ‘my dear lady, can you imagine anyone making love to her? Epicene. Of course it is different with a man practically dead,’ he added, ‘he probably doesn’t care much whom he marries, nor whether or not he marries at all.’
‘No? I understood from your conduct the day I arrived that you had your eye on her. But perhaps I was mistaken after all.’
‘Granted I had: you and I seem to be in the same fix now, don’t we?’
She pinched through the stem of a rose, feeling him quite near her. Without looking at him she said:
‘You have already forgotten what I told you, haven’t you?’
He did not reply. She released her rose and moved slightly away from him. ‘That you have no skill in seduction. Don’t you know I can see what you are leading up to — that you and I should console one another? That’s too childish, even for you. I have had to play at too many of these sexual acrostics with poor boys whom I respected even if I didn’t like them.’ The rose splashed redly against the front of her dark dress. She secured it with a pin. ‘Let me give you some advice,’ she continued sharply, ‘the next time you try to seduce anyone, don’t do it with talk, with words. Women know more about words than men ever will. And they know how little they can ever possibly mean.’
Jones removed his yellow stare. His next move was quite feminine: he turned and lounged away without a word. For he had seen Emmy beyond the garden hanging washed clothes upon a line. Mrs Powers, looking after his slouching figure, said Oh. She had just remarked Emmy raising garments to a line with formal gestures, like a Greek masque.
She watched Jones approach Emmy, saw Emmy, when she heard his step, poise a half-raised cloth in a formal arrested gesture, turning her head across her reverted body. Damn the beast, Mrs Powers thought, wondering whether or not to follow and interfere. But what good would it do? He’ll only come back later. And playing Cerberus to Emmy. . . . She removed her gaze and saw Gilligan approaching. He blurted:
‘Damn that girl. Do you know what I think? I think she—’
‘What girl?’
‘What’s her name, Saunders. I think she’s scared of something. She acts like she might have got herself into a jam of some kind and is trying to get out of it by taking the loot right quick. Scared. Flopping around like a fish.’
‘Why don’t you like her, Joe? You don’t want her to marry him.’
‘No, it ain’t that. It just frets me to see her change her mind every twenty minutes.’ He offered her a cigarette which she refused and lit one himself. ‘I’m jealous, I guess,’ he said, after a time, ‘seeing the loot getting married when neither of ’em want to ‘specially, while I can’t get my girl at all. . . .’
‘What, Joe? You married?’
He looked at her steadily. ‘Don’t talk like that. You know what I mean.’
‘Oh, Lord. Twice in one hour.’ His gaze was so steady, so serious, that she looked quickly away.
‘What’s that?’ she asked. She took the rose from her dress and slipped it into his lapel.
‘Joe, what is that beast hanging around here for?’
‘Who? What beast?’ He followed her eyes. ‘Oh. That damn feller. I’m going to beat hell out of him on principle, some day. I don’t like him.’
‘Neither do I. Hope I’m there to see you do it.’
‘Has he been bothering you?’ he asked quickly. She gave him her steady gaze.
‘Do you think he could?’
‘That’s right,’ he admitted. He looked at Jones and Emmy again. ‘That’s another thing. That Saunders girl lets him fool around her. I don’t like anybody that will stand for him.’
‘Don’t be silly, Joe. She’s just young and more or less of a fool about men.’
‘If that’s your polite way of putting it, I agree with you.’ His eyes touched her smooth cheek blackly winged by her hair. ‘If you had let a man think you was going to marry him you wouldn’t blow hot and cold like that.’
She stared away across the garden and he repeated: ‘Would you, Margaret?’
‘You are a fool yourself, Joe. Only you are a nice fool.’ She met his intent gaze and he said Margaret? She put her swift strong hand on his arm. ‘Don’t Joe. Please.’
He rammed his hands in his pockets, turning away. They walked on in silence.
4
Spring, like a soft breeze, was in the rector’s fringe of hair as with upflung head he tramped the porch like an old war-horse who hears again a trumpet after he had long thought all wars were done. Birds in a wind across the lawn, parabolic from tree to tree, and a tree at the corner of the house turning upward its white-bellied leaves in a passionate arrested rush: it and the rector faced each other in ecstasy. A friend came morosely along the path from the kitchen door.
‘Good morning, Mr Jones,’ the rector boomed, scattering sparrows from the screening vine. The tree to his voice took a more unbearable ecstasy, its twinkling leaves swirled in a never-escaping silver skyward rush.
Jones, nursing his hand, replied Good morning in a slow obese anger. He mounted the steps and the rector bathed him in a hearty exuberance.
‘Come ‘round to congratulate us on the good news, eh? Fine, my boy, fine, fine. Yes, everything is arranged at last. Come in, come in.’
Emmy flopped on to the veranda belligerently. ‘Uncle Joe,’ she said, shooting at Jones a hot exulting glance. Jones, nursing his hand, glowered at her. (God damn you, you’ll suffer for this.)
‘Eh? What is it, Emmy?’
‘Mr Saunders is on the phone: he wants to know if you’ll see him this morning.’ (I showed you! Teach you to fool
with me.)
‘Ah, yes. Mr Saunders coming to discuss plans for the marriage, Mr Jones.’
‘Yes, sir.’ (I’ll fix you.)
‘What’ll I tell him?’ (Do it, if you think you can. You have never come off very well yet. You fat worm.)
‘Tell him, by all means, that I had intended calling upon him myself. Yes, indeed. Ah, Mr Jones, we are all to be congratulated this morning.’
‘Yes, sir.’ (You little slut.)
‘Tell him, by all means, Emmy.’
‘All right.’ (I told you I’d do it! I told you you can’t fool with me. Didn’t I, now?)
‘And, Emmy, Mr Jones will be with us for lunch. A celebration is in order, eh, Mr Jones?’
‘Without doubt. We all have something to celebrate.’ (That’s what makes me so damn mad: you said you would and I let you do it. Slam a door on my hand! Damn YOU to hell.)
‘All right. He can stay if he wants to.’ (Damn you to hell.) Emmy arrowed him another hot exulting glance and slammed the door as a parting shot.
The rector tramped heavily, happily, like a boy. ‘Ah, Mr Jones, to be as young as he is, to have your life circumscribed, moved hither and yonder at the vacillations of such delightful pests. Women, women! How charming never to know exactly what you want! While we men are always so sure we do. Dullness, dullness, Mr Jones. Perhaps that’s why we like them, yet cannot stand very much of them. What do you think?’
Jones, glumly silent, nursing his hand, said after a while: ‘I don’t know. But it seemed to me your son has had extraordinarily good luck with his women.’
‘Yes?’ the rector said, with interest. ‘How so?’
‘Well (I think you told me that he was once involved with Emmy?), well, he no longer remembers Emmy (damn her soul: slam a door on me) and now he is about to become involved with another whom he will not even have to look at. What more could one ask than that?’
The rector looked at him keenly and kindly a moment. ‘You have retained several of your youthful characteristics, Mr Jones.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Jones, with defensive belligerence. A car drew up to the gate, and after Mr Saunders had descended, drove away.
‘One in particular: that of being unnecessarily and pettily brutal about rather insignificant things. Ah,’ he added, looking up, ‘here is Mr Saunders. Excuse me, will you? You will probably find Mrs Powers and Mr Gilligan in the garden,’ he said, over his shoulder, greeting his caller.
Jones, in a vindictive rage, saw them shake hands. They ignored him, and he lounged viciously past them seeking his pipe. It eluded him and he cursed it slowly, beating at his various pockets.
‘I had intended calling upon you today.’ The rector took his caller affectionately by the elbow. ‘Come in, come in.’
Mr Saunders allowed himself to be propelled across the veranda. Murmuring a conventional response the rector herded him heartily beneath the fanlight, down the dark hall, and into the study, without noticing the caller’s air of uncomfortable reserve. He moved a chair for the guest and took his own seat at the desk. Through the window he could see a shallow section of the tree that, unseen but suggested, swirled upward in an ecstasy of never-escaping silver-bellied leaves.
The rector’s swivel chair protested, tilting. ‘Ah, yes, you smoke cigars, I recall. Matches at your elbow.’
Mr Saunders rolled his cigar slowly in his fingers. At last he made up his mind and lit it.
‘Well, the young people have taken things out of our hands, eh?’ the rector spoke around his pipe stem. ‘I will say now that I have long desired it, and, frankly, I have expected it. Though I would not have insisted, knowing Donald’s condition. But as Cecily herself desires it—’
‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Mr Saunders, slowly. The rector did not notice.
‘You, I know, have been a staunch advocate of it all along. Mrs Powers repeated your conversation to me.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And do you know, I look for this marriage to be better than a medicine for him. Not my own idea,’ he added, in swift explanation. ‘Frankly, I was sceptical but Mrs Powers and Joe — Mr Gilligan — advanced it first, and the surgeon from Atlanta convinced us all. He assured us that Cecily could do as much if not more for him than anyone. These were his very words, if I recall correctly. And now, since she desires it so much, since you and her mother support her. . . . Do you know,’ he slapped his caller upon the shoulder, ‘do you know, were I a betting man I would wager that we will not know the boy in a year’s time!’
Mr Saunders had trouble getting his cigar to burn properly. He bit the end from it savagely, then wreathing his head in smoke he blurted: ‘Mrs Saunders seems to have a few doubts yet.’ He fanned the smoke away and saw the rector’s huge face gone grey and quiet. ‘Not objections, exactly, you understand,’ he added, hurriedly, apologetically. Damn the woman, why couldn’t she have come herself instead of sending him?
The divine made a clicking sound. ‘This is bad. I had not expected this.’
‘Oh, I am sure we can convince her, you and I. Especially with Sis on our side.’ He had forgotten his own scruples, forgotten that he did not want his daughter to marry anyone.
‘This is bad,’ the rector repeated, hopelessly.
‘She will not refuse her consent,’ Mr Saunders lied hastily. ‘It is only that she is not convinced as to its soundness, considering Do — Cecily’s — Cecily’s youth, you see,’ he finished with inspiration. ‘On the contrary, in fact. I only brought it up so that we could have a clear understanding. Don’t you think it is best to know all the facts?’
‘Yes, yes.’ The rector was having trouble with his own tobacco. He put his pipe aside, pushing it away. He rose and tramped heavily along the worn path in the rug.
‘I am sorry,’ said Mr Saunders.
(This was Donald, my son. He is dead.)
‘But come, come. We are making a mountain out of a molehill,’ the rector exclaimed at last without conviction. ‘As you say, if the girl wants to marry Donald I am sure her mother will not refuse her consent. What do you think? Shall we call on her? Perhaps she does not understand the situation, that — that they care for each other so much. She has not seen Donald since he returned, and you know how rumours get about. . . .’ (This was Donald, my son. He is dead.)
He paused mountainous and shapeless in his casual black, yearning upon the other. Mr Saunders rose from his chair, and the rector took, his arm, lest he escape.
‘Yes, that is best. We will see her together and talk it over thoroughly before we make a definite decision. Yes, yes,’ the rector repeated, flogging his own failing conviction, spurring it. ‘This afternoon, then?’
‘This afternoon,’ Mr Saunders agreed.
‘Yes, that is our proper course. I’m sure she does not understand. You don’t think she fully understands?’ (This was Donald, my son. He is dead.)
‘Yes, yes,’ Mr Saunders agreed in his turn.
Jones found his pipe at last and nursing his bruised hand he filled and lit it.
5
She had just met Mrs Worthington in a store and they had discussed putting up plums. Then Mrs Worthington, saying good-bye, waddled away slowly to her car. The Negro driver helped her in with efficient detachment and shut the door.
I’m spryer than her, thought Mrs Burney exultantly, watching the other’s gouty painful movement. Spite of she’s rich and got a car, she added, feeling better through malice, suppressing her own bone-aches, walking spryer than the rich one. Spite of she’s got money. And here approaching was that strange woman staying at Parson Mahon’s, the one that come here with him and that other man, getting herself talked about, and right. The one everybody expected to marry him and that he had throwed down for that boy-chasing Saunders girl.
‘Well,’ she remarked with comfortable curiosity, peering up into the white calm face of the tall dark woman in her dark dress with its immaculate cuffs and collar. ‘I hear you are going to have a marriage up at your
house. That’s so nice for Donald. He’s quite sweet on her, ain’t he?’
‘Yes. They were engaged for a long time, you know.’
‘Yes, they was. But folks never thought she’d wait for him, let alone take him sick and scratched up like he is. She’s had lots of chances, since.’
‘Folks think lots of things that aren’t true,’ Mrs Powers reminded her. But Mrs Burney was intent on her own words.
‘Yes, she’s had lots of chances. But then Donald has too, ain’t he?’ she asked cunningly.
‘I don’t know. You see, I haven’t known him very long.’
‘Oh, you ain’t? Folks all thought you and him was old friends, like.’
Mrs Powers looked down at her neat cramped figure in its air-proof black without replying.
Mrs Burney sighed. ‘Well, marriages is nice. My boy never married. Like’s not he would by now: girls was all crazy about him, only he went to war so young.’ Her peering, salacious curiosity suddenly left her. ‘You heard about my boy?’ she asked with yearning.
‘Yes, they told me, Dr Mahon did. He was a good soldier, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. And them folks got him killed with just a lot of men around: nobody to do nothing for him. Seems like they might of took him into a house where womenfolks could have eased him. Them others come back spry and bragging much as you please. Trust them officers and things not to get hurt!’ Her washed blue eyes brooded across the quiet square. After a time she said: ‘You never lost no one you loved in the war, did you?’
‘No,’ Mrs Powers answered, gently.
‘I never thought so,’ the other stated fretfully. ‘You don’t look like it, so tall and pretty. But then, most didn’t. He was so young,’ she explained, ‘so brave. . . .’ She fumbled with her umbrella. Then she said briskly:
‘Mahon’s boy come back, anyway. That’s something ‘Specially as he’s taking a bride.’ She became curious again, obscene: ‘He’s all right, ain’t he?’
‘All right?’
‘I mean for marriage. He ain’t — it’s just — I mean a man ain’t no right to palm himself off on a woman if he ain’t—’
‘Good morning,’ said Mrs Powers curtly, leaving her cramped and neat in her meticulous air-proof black, holding her cotton umbrella like a flag, stubborn, refusing to surrender.
Complete Works of William Faulkner Page 23
