To Look and Pass

by Taylor Caldwell

  “Oh, that’s all right,” said Dave easily. “Don’t mind the other boys, Jim. We didn’t invite them; they just came along with us, to see the fun.”

  “Now, be a nice little fellow and run home,” urged Willie, coming forward languidly. He towered over me some six inches, being a lanky and spindling young man with a good-natured and almost perpetually grinning face. Despite his profession, he seemed a yokel, with his big, clumsy feet, shock of light yellow hair, and small, narrow eyes.

  “No,” I said quietly, “I’m staying.” I looked at them all significantly. “I may be needed as a witness. Besides, I think I’ll go into the house and telephone for the sheriff. You can argue it out with him.”

  I started for the house, but Willie, his good nature wiped from his face, seized me by the arm.

  “No, you don’t,” he said, and his voice was no longer languid; it was grim. “We can’t drive you off, if you insist on being a fool, but you’re not going to get us into any trouble.”

  At that instant we heard the sound of approaching wheels in the clear and motionless air. Willie dropped my arm. We all swung in the direction of the sound. A buggy had turned into the roadway and was approaching slowly. Despite the dim light I could see that it was Mortimer’s vehicle, and that he was driving. Dan sat beside him. A thick silence fell on the men. The buggy came on, then one of the men ran forward a few steps, snatched the reins from Mortimer’s hands, and stopped the horse. Instantly the buggy was surrounded. I could not work my way through the press.

  “Hello,” said Jack quietly and slowly. I saw Mortimer’s old face, thin and ghastly in the gloomy light, his eyes blinking. I saw Dan’s face, passive and indifferent and removed. He merely glanced from one to another of the men. He was smoking his restored pipe placidly.

  “Jack!” cried Mortimer shrilly. “What is all this?”

  “I’m sorry you’re here,” said Jack regretfully. “Come on, Dad, get out. We want to talk to Dan Hendricks.”

  Mortimer clenched his whip, looked about himself desperately.

  “I don’t know what this is all about,” he exclaimed loudly. “But I’d advise you fellows to let us pass. I can’t believe this of you, Jack. I thought you had sense. We’ll have a talk about this when we get home.”

  “Of course we will, Dad,” said Jack gently. “But now, please get out. Here, let me help you.”

  “Get out, Mortimer,” said Dan very quietly. “I’ll handle this.” He looked at them with profound contempt.

  “No,” said Mortimer resolutely, clutching his whip. He looked about him wildly, saw me, and for moment I read the sudden terror in his poor old face. I saw that he believed in that moment that I had told everything. I felt hot with humiliation and fear, and shook my head at him fiercely. He sank back a little on his seat. “Jack, let us by. This is no time for any nonsense. Call off this pack of dogs, and we’ll talk it over in the house.”

  Jack hesitated, and glanced at his two friends. They looked irresolute. But the “pack” would not be deprived of its holiday; they did not believe in genteel palaver. They were out for blood and would not allow the “classy” fellows to take it from them.

  “No, you don’t go into that house!” shouted one of them, a burly farmer, as he pushed himself forward. “We’re a-goin’ to settle things right here and now! That so-and-so’s got to leave town, and right away! We’re a-goin’ to be the bodyguard that’s goin’ to take him to the cars. You other fellas can do what you want, come with us or not. What you say, boys?” and he turned to his companions, who roared in answer.

  I looked at Jack and Willie and Dave with grim bitterness. “Well, you started something you can’t finish, boys,” I said. Jack gave me an evil look. But he was plainly disturbed. He tried to placate the men.

  “Yes, he’ll get out today,” he said unemotionally. “But, there’re things to settle. He’s entitled to take what he wants with him. We’ll go in with him, and you others can wait outside for us.”

  “No!” shouted the mob. “We’re goin’ to be right here, and so is he, and you, too. And if he don’t hurry up, we’ll drag him out of that buggy and hang him, in spite of your yellow guts and the old man there!”

  They crowded around the buggy, pushing my friends roughly aside. Several hands reached up to seize Dan, who had sat in silence during all this, seemingly not connected with the matter at all. He was still smoking.

  The word “hang” threw poor old Mortimer into madness. He sprang to his feet, crouching. He raised his whip, struck the men violently in the faces with it, then lashed at the held horse. It leaped into the air, slashed out with its hoofs, scattering the men for an instant, then sprang forward. Someone grasped for the reins, but the buggy leapt ahead; the reins were caught again, and the buggy was brought to a violent standstill.

  Old Mortimer had been standing up, lashing about him; the sudden leaping forward of the vehicle had caused him to stagger. Its violent stopping threw him off his feet, and like from a catapult he was hurled out of the buggy, over the heads of the men, and thrown crashingly into the roadway.

  It had all happened in a few seconds. It had taken eternities of slow and ponderous motion. I stared at all this, stupefied, at the trembling horse, at Dan leaning forward to see, at the suddenly silent men, at the crushed and motionless figure in the roadway. Mortimer’s head had struck a sharp rock, and had been hurled grotesquely aside. I knew in one instant that his neck was broken, and that he was dead. And over all, the men, the buggy, the thin black figure sprawled on the ground, the pale dim light of the November evening fell. I even remember seeing the far pricking of the new stars in the sky.

  And then, I don’t remember just what took place next, but I found myself in the press of men, striking out madly at bobbing faces. I kicked and punched, I screamed and yelled and sobbed. Oh, in all the world there is no such delight as this, the feeling the soft and yielding pulp of a mouth under one’s knuckles, the feeling the brittle crumbling of resistant teeth! There is no such delight, no such exquisite pleasure! The grunt of a man as he goes down is better than any music, any other sound in all the world!

  A dimness had fallen over my eyes; I tasted blood in my mouth. It seemed the most delicious taste of all. I was conscious only of bodies that tried to elude me, of scattering figures, of faces that went down. It was some moments before I became aware that someone had seized me, was shaking me violently. Through spaces and aeons and centuries I heard a loud voice in my ears, stern and harsh.

  “Jim! Jim! Stop it! Keep still! Hear me? Stop! Stop, damn you!”

  I was literally swung off my feet. I found myself glaring up into Dan’s face, panting. It was very white, and there was a bloody drop on his lip. His eyes were commanding.

  “Jim! Can you hear me? Stop it. Help me with Mortimer. That’s the only important thing now. Mortimer. Mortimer!”

  He dropped me so suddenly that I reeled. I stared about me, blinking. In the dim distance I saw running figures, scurrying toward the main road. I felt the evening wind on my face. I looked toward the house, disoriented. Jack and Willie and Dave were carrying Mortimer up the stairs. While I watched, they bore him into the house. Dan took my arm, more gently this time.

  “Jim. Listen to me. Mortimer’s hurt. You know that. You’re a doctor. We need you.”

  I broke down, began to weep wildly, staggered against him. “He’s dead,” I sobbed. “Didn’t you see that, yourself? He’s dead. It’s no use.”

  He was shaking me a little, abstractedly, mechanically. Then I heard him groan. He turned away, began to stumble back to the house. I followed him, choking.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Mortimer had been laid upon the sofa in Dan’s beautiful living room, the very room in which Beatrice had been killed. Jack, Willie, and Dave stood about the couch as I came in; blank misery was on all their faces. Jack kept squeezing a few hard tears through his red eyelids. Dan stood at the head of the sofa and looked down at Mortimer, silently, apparently unmoved.<
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  I handled the old man as well as I could, but he was already dead. I pressed down his eyelids and laid down his arms. His neck had been broken, and he must have died instantly. It is strange how platitudes, how the things one has learned indifferently, rise like bits of wood to the surface of a disturbed and running mind, but I repeated to myself mechanically: “Greater love hath no man—”

  I looked at them all slowly, unconscious for the moment of my own abrasions and bruises.

  “Well,” I said with great bitterness, “you can thank yourself, Jack. You killed your father—”

  Jack’s dry lips fell open with a harsh gasp. Dan lifted his head and looked at me with stern annoyance.

  “Don’t talk like a fool, Jim. This is no time for dramatics. ‘Killed your father!’ You use words too loosely, always did. This is a very terrible accident, and might not have happened if Mortimer hadn’t lost his head. No one is to blame.”

  Jack turned his eyes to him slowly, and his expression became piteous, almost humble.

  “Do you really believe that?” he asked, beseechingly.

  Dan nodded, and turned away. But my anger flared up.

  “Whatever you want to say about this, Dan, it’s murder! And I’m calling the sheriff, now! They aren’t going to get away with this, not if I have anything to say about it. You can smooth it over if you want to, but the fact remains that these fellows here were heading a mob set on violence. The violent thing happened, though not the way they expected. It’s manslaughter, at the least.”

  I sat down, trembling, unable to stand. I looked at Mortimer lying there, supine, and quiet. Already the wry and satirical lines seemed to be fading, and his expression was becoming remote and majestic. The sudden thought came to me that this was best, that he was at peace now. But my hatred for his killers did not become less. I went to the wall telephone to call the sheriff at Ripley, and tell that astounded gentleman the facts. But before I could speak a word Dan snatched the instrument from my hand and calmly replaced it.

  “Listen to me for a while, Jim,” he said quietly, and forcibly led me back to the others, who were standing in silence with drooping heads. Jack kept mopping his eyes with his handkerchief. I could see his red hands tremble.

  “Listen,” Dan repeated, looking straight at all of us. “This can be kept quiet. That is, if you all have sense. That hangdog mob you had with you, Jack, won’t talk. They’re probably having diarrhea over it now. You won’t need to talk, either. We were all together, met on the road. I was with Mortimer. The horse bolted, he was thrown out, and killed instantly. Jim, here, can testify to that. You can all testify to it. The other little—facts can be kept quiet. I’m not interested in knowing why you came or anything. It was all an accident, and the least said the better.

  “I don’t bear any of you any animosity. Not because I’m noble or anything, but just because I’m not interested in you or anything you have to say. I’m staying here. None of you could drive me off. This is my home; I bought it and paid for it. I want you to understand that, now. I’m staying. It is only when you have interfered with me that there has been trouble. I never interfered with you; all I have ever asked of any of you was to leave me alone. I hope I can expect that now.

  “In the meantime, you have the story. I am sure that no one will question any of you—”

  “I’m sick of stories!” I cried violently “I’m sick of smoothing things down, and lying, and keeping quiet!” I turned to Dan; he was studying me curiously, almost thoughtfully. “Yes, look at me, Dan. But this time there’s going to be real trouble. I’ll have these three rescals in jail before night, and I’d like to see anyone stop me!”

  I glared at them. They returned my glare dully, as though their thoughts were elsewhere, as indeed they were.

  “You haven’t an ounce of pride, Dan Hendricks,” I resumed. “They might have hanged you or beaten you up if this hadn’t happened. Now, you’ve got them where you ought to have gotten them. Jack can have it on his mind all his life—that he murdered his father; he can look at Williams here, and King, and know they helped him kill him. They can have a nice little sojourn in jail, too, to think things over. They can have it to think about all their lives. You can, ruin them. Even if you don’t want to do that, I will do it. I will make this town too hot to hold them. Damn it, I never thought that you, Dan, would have a spell of Christian love all of a sudden!”

  My words aroused the three young men, and they stared at each other, affrightedly, drawn away from remorse and grief to consideration of immediate danger and themselves. They next looked at Dan, instead of at me, and under other circumstances I could have laughed at their imploring faces, their silent cries for help to him.

  Dan smiled slightly at what I had said. “Will all that bring Mortimer back? Do you think, Jim, that he would want his son to suffer for an accident, that no one intended? Do you think he would be grateful to you for that? Don’t you think you owe him a little consideration?”

  I was silent, fuming. Jack bent over his father, touched the dead forehead with a trembling finger. He began to weep, silently. He stood up.

  “Poor Dad,” he said, his lips shaking. “No one ever had a better father. He always seemed to understand things other folks didn’t.” A sudden thought seemed to strike him, and over his father’s body he looked intently and for a long time at Dan. There was surprise, wonderment, and shame on his face. He stood up.

  “I don’t care what happens,” he said listlessly. “I expect we were all wrong. We won’t bother you again, Dan. Seems like we always bothered you about something. I guess we can’t be friends, but if you need help at any time we fellows want to be told about it.”

  Dan said nothing. I felt I had been excluded from serious consideration.

  “Very pretty,” I said contemptuously. “But I’m not moved at all. The sheriff is going to hear all about it.”

  Dan turned to me and again regarded me thoughtfully. It was one of the last times I ever saw him alive, and I can remember so vividly his tall thin, figure, his steady brown eyes, his ugly yet somehow beautiful face. He began to speak slowly, his hands in his pockets, his rough shock of hair falling over his forehead. He spoke to me exclusively.

  “Jim, you’ve always been reproaching me that I wouldn’t let you be my friend, that I never asked anything of you, wouldn’t let you come near me. Well, now I’m asking something of you. I’m asking you not to do what you seem to intend doing. I’m asking you, again, to keep quiet.

  “I’m not asking this for anyone’s sake but Mortimer’s. It is what he would have wanted. I don’t think he is bearing any ill will now, if he lives. I think he would be amused at you. He would want you to do as we will all do: shut your mouth. So, I’m asking you this for him.”

  Our eyes locked across Mortimer’s body. A thousand mysterious and mournful things were in Dan’s eyes—compelling, stern, tired and melancholy. I turned away.

  I put my hand to my swollen face, let it drop heavily.

  “Hell, all right,” I muttered. “I expect I can keep quiet once more.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  There was no inquest over Mortimer’s death. His funeral was very quiet, and for the first time everyone seemed to realize what he had meant in the life of South Kenton. Everyone was genuinely grieved and shaken. Mrs. Rugby took to her bed after her husband’s death and never rose from it again. Jack’s cockiness vanished for all time; he became subdued and abstracted and less bellicose.

  I told Livy the facts, bitterly. But again she seemed to have a deeper understanding than I did.

  Mortimer’s death removed the public eye from Dan for a while. It was like a cold cataract of water on a furious fire. For a time he was almost forgotten. Then, just when that eye began to turn back to him, two weeks after Mortimer’s tragic death, Sarah Faire died.

  She had not really recovered consciousness since the dreadful night of Beatrice’s murder, and she died very quietly without speaking again. Dan did not come
to her funeral, neither did he send a single flower. What he thought of the death of the only woman he had ever loved I do not know. I still do not know. He lived on his little farm and no one ever saw him, except at a distance.

  Sarah was buried beside her daugher. Somehow, I felt this was wrong. But I could say nothing.

  For a long time South Kenton lived in a gray apathy. Too many things had happened for it to assimilate them quickly. A listless search was made for possible murderers, such as tramps. No one remembered seeing any strangers in the country. No one was known to have any animosity towards Beatrice Hendricks. It was all a dark mystery, and the only one who could have enlightened us was dead. But perhaps the one who could have enlightened us was living, out there on his hidden little farm. Who knows? I never knew. Somehow, it doesn’t seem important to me.

  After three or four months, agitation for the forcible removal of Dan Hendricks from the country was begun. But it died down quickly. I am sure that Jack Rugby and Willie Williams and Dave King had something to do with that. They never spoke of Dan to me. As for myself, I avoided them for a long while. It gave me no pleasure to see them, to see their hangdog looks, their flushes, their uneasiness.

  They put up an imposing monument to Mortimer in the graveyard. “Whom God endowed!” But they did not know how deeply God had in truth endowed him. That was a secret that only a few of us knew. The grave was kept vivid and bright with flowers, but the graves of Sarah and Beatrice lay in obscurity.

  Months went by. I had become very ill with influenza on that terrible day and was prostrated for a long time. I heard of what was going on only at second hand. I was exhausted mentally and physically, and nothing impinged on me too acutely. Livy nursed me with devotion. Looking up in her smiling face, so quiet and firm and tender, I felt a deep content. I was only too glad not to speak of many things.

  Chapter Thirty

  In the spring my father died of apoplexy. As I looked at him in his casket I had the strange thought that I had never really known him, that he had died in mystery. Yes, we all live in mystery, and die in mystery. We see each other’s comings and goings, each other’s faces and gestures, hear each other’s voices. But we never know each other. What is behind those walls of flesh, those glimpses caught behind dark wickets, those thick garments? I know this is an old thought, not new, but it does not lose its poignancy and wonder. It strikes one afresh each time it is thought. To me it is the greatest grief of all: that we never in reality see those who are closest to us. Perhaps, seeing them after death, we would not recognize them.