In which there is Discovered a Compunction
The iron-gray horse--the former property of one "Miss Meely," an
existence in rumor, suspected of being quick-tempered--turned into an
alley that led past the windows of the restaurant with the gilt sign to
a livery stable.
The restaurant was full of the bustle of hurrying waiters and the hum of
conversation. Mavering sat half-way down the line of tables, the remains
of his meal before him. He was leaning back, looking peacefully at the
ceiling, when Gard came, sat down at the other side of the table, and
held out his hand. Mavering took his eyes from the ceiling and said,
mildly. "Angel and ministers of grace! I prepared an obituary for you a
month ago." He drew a thin, bony hand from his pocket and stretched it
across the table. Gard gave his order to the waiter before he commented.
"Why did you do that?"
"Ah! Why? If I remember the circumstances correctly they were these."
Gard listened silently while Mavering told the story with niceties of
detail. Finally he said:
"I don't see what Map did that for."
"Don't you? Then neither do I, but in the highway of interpretation I
should say he doesn't like you to be alive--possibly has a grudge."
"He must have, but I didn't know it before."
And later, when they were in the street that climbed to the capitol, and
seemed to come to an end there, finally, in adoration of its sunlit
dome, Gard asked:
"Do you know where I'm going?"
"The question offers unlimited interest. I take it to be rhetorical. I
do not."
"I'm going to look for Mrs. Mavering and a young lady who is with her.
They're nursing in one of the hospitals, or were last winter. Did you
know it?"
"I did not."
"Going with me?"
"I'll walk along and make up my mind."
After a few moments' silence:
"It was hard luck for Mrs. Mavering to marry you."
"You speak truth."
"You didn't boil down to much."
"Blanked little. What's your intricate meaning?"
"I was thinking of Map."
They did not find them till the next day. There were ten or twelve
hospitals in and about the city, some of them in the suburbs and far
apart. Certain doctors knew the two nurses, and one directed them to a
hospital which turned out to be a kind of military city with streets and
sentries; but they were not there. The hospitals were all working
smoothly at the time. There had been no large battle since Antietam, and
there were few of those grim, dreary, and confused scenes which at times
made the hospitals seem sterner battle-fields than any at the front.
Nevertheless Mavering felt and expressed a sense of injury.
"You don't mean to say I'm as tough as all this!"
"I haven't said anything about your toughness. Maybe you are. We'll try
Mount Pleasant now. That will be the last to-night." And they rode away
from the military city.
"You know her," continued Mavering. "She is what you would call, after
duly considering the adjective, select. She doesn't like realism, raw
humanity, and irregular event. She desires humanity to be cooked and
served in courses, even to be ordered up to the rules of art. By which
figurative language I mean to say that I don't see, that no ready
interpretation presents itself, that I'm interested to know who
persuaded her to take a ticket to the suburbs of hell."
"You'll know if we find them."
"It was, then, this Miss?--"
"Bourn."
"Bourn. Exactly. Of that undiscovered country. Having discovered who
induced the buying of the ticket aforesaid, there remains how she did
it, this Miss--a--Bourn."
Late the following day they came to a hospital that had been a warehouse
and stood on rising ground, a little back from the river, where a white
steamer was lying at the wharf. There were sheds around the building,
and new wooden steps built up to the door where the freight had once
been discharged.
A man at the door said Mrs. Mavering and Miss Bourn were within, and
took their names. Beyond him they saw accurately straight rows of cots,
each with a head at one end. In a few moments he came back and said the
two nurses would be off duty in an hour.
They walked to and fro, past their horses fastened in one of the sheds,
till the dusk grew around them. The hospital windows were lit. Lights
began to gleam beyond the river and the flat lands. A mist rose and
clung to the water, crouched and ghostly. There was no moon, but the
stars were out, and one could hear the lapping of the cold water among
the reeds. They did not see Rachel and Helen come from the wide door
down the new wooden steps, or notice them till they were near, coming
hooded and cloaked through the dusk.
Mavering admitted to himself a personal and direct surprise. His last
memories of Rachel were of tears, and then pale dignity and a kind of
fine repellence. But she did not betray the past in manner. He could not
see her face.
She said:
"There will be scallops for supper, gentlemen, and then may we have your
adventures?"
Mavering found himself walking beside her, and admitting his surprise to
be personal and direct. Presently he picked up his fluency.
"I judge you would like to avoid reminiscence. In the interests of
clarity and calm weather, however, allow me to say that I don't intend
to bother you; I'm a statue personifying resignation."
"Thank you, Jack. There is where we live. Helen and I."
It was a brick house with a white door, two slender pillars before the
door, and low, pleasant windows. It overlooked the river, on which a
gray layer of mist now brooded. Only a few houses were near, and a grove
of trees lay beyond.
"We were in the city last winter and spring, and in another hospital,
till a doctor who had charge sent us out here, in July, and found this
for us. Helen looked so badly. She sympathizes so tremendously. She grew
very thin and white. They don't bring them here directly from the
fields, you know. Most of them here are getting better. He said we would
be quite as much use. Do you know, it is very nice to be of use."
"Do I gather that, apart from the charm of utility--a thing that never
appealed to me by its own virtue--do I correctly infer that you like
it?"
Mrs. Mavering opened the door. The lamp in the hall shone across her
face as she turned with a curious smile.
"You don't change, do you?"
If Helen surprised Gard it was not with change, but with that same
vividness of her personality; the tone of her voice, as definite as a
musical theme; the swift step; the nameless something about her,
impetuous, challenging, demanding, that said, "This is Helen--not a
resemblance or recollection merely, but one who cannot be made another."
He was surprised by the flood of his recollections of her and by the
fact that, tested by the present, they were all found to be true.
"Lady Rachel says there are scallops. It's glorious of you to come. We
know what you did in the spring, and we have a piano, but you ought to
have an organ to tell about it, it's so big. Is it fun to be a hero?"
"That's an odd idea. I thought you might tell me who I am, or whether
I'm something at all; but I don't recognize that. Can't you do any
better?"
They followed Mavering and Rachel, and came to the white door, that
stood open for them. Helen looked up suddenly, but did not smile, only
said:
"You've changed, haven't you?"
Within he noticed Mrs. Mavering's touch everywhere. Wherever she was,
things about her seemed to alter their practical bearing and take on a
difference. A plain table became luxurious by virtue of something thrown
across it. A tall jar was placed on the painted mantel-piece, and the
mantel-piece itself became reminiscent.
After supper, where the scallops did not fail, the four gathered before
the grate. A fire crackled, and the slender jar stood above, in reminder
of realms where form and color were the only deities. Gard thought Mrs.
Mavering had changed. Helen's pallor and thinness did not touch her
imperative identity. Mrs. Mavering had changed less in looks than in
tone. There was less languor and withdrawal. As to the relations between
her and Jack, they did not seem to be uncomfortable at present, and were
no business of his.
"Helen tells me I'm changed," he said. "Do you remember the night when I
came to see you instead of playing in Saint Mary's, and Helen played she
was a valiant knight and you were a lady hidden in a tower, and I
offered to be the ogre who was said to have a tower of his own somewhere
to be proud in? It was nearly two years ago. I think the knight is still
charging, and wanting to make wrong right by sticking a lance into it.
But the lady has come out of her tower and gone questing with the
knight, and doesn't seem quite the same. And the ogre has found the
'somewhere' of his tower even more vague than it was then, or, if he has
found it, it seems to be empty. Nothing lives there but winds and ghosts
now."
"What have you been doing?" asked Helen. "We hear stories of other
people, but we haven't any to tell. But I don't understand what you
mean."
"What I've been doing hasn't much to do with it. But I'll tell about
that, if you like. You'd better have Mavering's first."
"Singular anchorite!" Mavering murmured. "Why?"
"You'll tell it better."
"Without doubt. But a reason for waiting occurs to me."
"Don't you want to smoke?" asked Rachel, suddenly.
"It is not what I referred to, but it proves your knowledge that my
motives are physical and uninspired."
In Gard's narrative there was no mention of Map, and the discovery of
the first disguise was given to another source. It was told simply,
rather indifferently. When it was finished Mavering remarked:
"The anchorite's style has the classical merits of austerity."
It was part of Mavering's travelling-kit and baggage of the nomad, this
gift of his, to be among tellers of stories, rare and excellent. For
soldiers around camp-fires, old women in doorways, gentlemen at clubs
and dinner-tables, newsboys in the city, school-children in the country
with tin lunch-pails, farmer, tramp, hod-carrier, doctor, clergyman,
blackleg, maiden in silk or gingham--it was all one; they forgot
themselves and country and kin and present purpose till he was through.
The "Ancient Mariner's" spell was not peculiar to that mariner. It is
more ancient than he, older than books, older than written language,
older than any city in pyramid or institution, practised among hunters
of wild beasts on the site of Damascus, and among those who first
scratched the fat soil of the Mesopotamian valley, the spell of the
teller. His method is anything convenient, a ballad chanted to a harp,
or a printed book. He speaks his mind and says what seems good to him as
he goes, for the basis of it is the story, and the force is the force of
the man. Mavering practised the primitive and personal method, and was
heaven-born to it.
His narrative ran from the beginning of the summer, when he had come
south as a correspondent and joined the army in the Peninsula, went on
with easy gait and leaping of spaces, gave glimpses and incidents by the
way, dropped out a month, fell upon the middle of September, and drew to
a close.
"Wherever I went that day over the hills, behind the guns I saw that
cornfield, or else where the cornfield was underneath and not to be seen
itself on account of lying in the middle of explosion, with wickedness
and confusion on one side, and sin and the reward thereof on the other,
all blackguarding each other across it, so that it was covered with
their blasphemous breath; till I had a superstition about that
cornfield, and said, 'If corn could be gathered therefrom, and corn
whiskey made thereof, it would be a chemical anarchy of the choicest, a
combative distillation unexcelled, a superior brand of whiskey.' It was
dusk when I came to the cornfield at last, and the battle had gone to
sleep in its cradle. The stretcher-men were in the corn, and they told
me to ride around the edge where the mess wasn't so thick. Their idea
seemed to be good. So that I never went into that cornfield, though it
was probably different from all the other cornfields, but came around
into a road beyond it. There were men burning rails for camp-fires, and
the woods were black, and the anchorite was strolling along, looking up
at the young moon, same way he always did."
Mavering paused a moment and puffed his cigar, took it out and looked at
it, and deepened his deep voice. "I search in vain among the sere and
yellow leaves of memory, whether it was ever in me to suck the end of a
moonbeam in place of a cigar."
He appealed to Rachel, who answered cheerfully and surprised him again:
"Oh yes, it was, and so it must be still."
"He's a hollow fraud, you know," Gard said. "He sucks moonbeams through
his cigar, and puffs them out of his mouth." And Helen gasped.
"It's tremendous!"
But it seemed to her, putting together the two narratives, that she
might make a parable. For in Mavering's story she seemed to see colored
lights flashed skilfully on a stage with curious effect, a search-light
swinging its glare so that one scene after another leaped out of the
dark and vanished again, a pleasure taken in the mere shift and play,
the change and tumult. The narrator walked in the midst, approving of
the noise, patronizing heroism and sudden death, admiring the scenic
effect of the fire that splashed and scattered around him. It was all
color and sound, and no real interpretation beneath. It meant nothing in
the end. In Gard's story, though the tumult was great and the dangers
greater, the scenes painted clearly though more coldly, and with fewer
details; yet he seemed not to care about them so, but to be looking
wistfully beyond for an interpretation and not able to find it--not sure
that there was one; fancying there must be, somewhere, something to make
it worth while.
She sat in her old place at Mrs. Mavering's feet and turned the matter
over, and thought it strange.
It surprised Gard, in watching her, that he remembered so much, so many
little shining points of detail about her--as she had looked in the
house, under the apse of Saint Mary's, sitting so, in a white dress, a
blue ribbon at her throat, and the firelight shining on her yellow hair.
And Mrs. Mavering used to wear dark-red dresses always, and suggest
tragedy without being aware of it. They both wore black now, and
starched, white aprons. Mrs. Mavering, in some inward way, seemed more
cheerful, more like one gifted with health and humorous philosophy. She
was astonishingly beautiful. Helen had grown white and thin. How
delicate and slim the hands looked that were clasped around her knee!
She used to have a sinewy grip for a girl. Everything about her declared
personality. It always had, and still did. Only, something or other
seemed pathetic now. Morgan Map was said to be engaged to her, and would
probably boil down badly. There was pathos there. That vast primeval
brute had run his neck into a noose, by-the-way, only it would not do to
string him up if she cared for him, though it might be a blessing to
her in the long run. Mrs. Mavering might have an opinion on that. What
Map's grudge may have been did not seem to Gard of any great interest.
He had had trouble with him once about some commissary. Morgan had
looked murder, and uttered white-hot language, and Gard had "corralled"
the commissary. The man must have a grisly disposition if that were his
"grudge."
Thinking of Map, then, his big, harsh-boned face, mighty hands,
massiveness, and "grisly disposition," he glanced at Helen again,
winced, and started.
The shock went shivering through flesh and bone. It hurt. He said,
aloud, "Oh, that won't do!"
He found himself on his feet, and the others looking surprised.
The piano suggested an excuse, and he sprang across the room.
"I haven't touched one in a year."
But his fingers trembled on the keys. He had not seen his nerve shaken
like that since his first battle, which opened for him with a shell
bursting in a mud-bank. It plastered him with mud, stood him on his
head, and shook his nerve admirably.
But this--Morgan Map--Helen--the pathos of it--the hideous
incongruity--the beast and the pit and our Lady of Pity and Purity! Oh,
Madonna, over the altar of a little whitewashed chapel, at whose
tender feet men poured out daily the passion of their souls like water!
Years, years, so many years ago, and one Gard Windham creeping into the
empty chapel at dawn, sobbing for the nameless heartache and the groping
loneliness, and Madonna was over the altar, pale-faced, in
silver-and-blue robe, who whispered to his sobbing prayer. "The organ!
play!" Then he played and forgot in the gray dawn, till the chapel was
full of presences, and the _bonus Deus_ came behind the altar and agreed
with Our Lady to be kind to Gard, and not let his sins frighten him too
badly. How he loved her then--Madonna! _That_ was Gard Windham! He was
real! What was he now? Swept down under the years, the thinking and
working, the flood waves of the big world--and now--Morgan Map! "I
haven't prayed in long, Madonna, but she's too slim and brave and
yellow-haired, and made from the beginning of her days to be blessed and
guarded from the slime and stain, the red-eyed animal and the pitiless
fist." It was worse--why, Mavering had points of decency, and, besides,
Mrs. Mavering was not--"I haven't prayed, Madonna. I don't know where
you are. But call the _bonus Deus_, for the beast climbs the stars. _Ora
pro nobis_, for Helen--for me. Or save the girl, and let me go. It
doesn't matter."
He felt that he had never played before like that night. The piano
seemed to tremble under the fingers, to thud and flash, and the old fire
flooded his nerves.
He stumbled blindly on the way to the shed where the horses were
fastened.
"Do something for me, Jack. Tell Mrs. Mavering about that Map business.
Tell her she must save that girl. It won't do."
"What in--what's your intricate meaning?"
"Map, man! He has a hold on her. You see what he is."
"I do not. But I see--I begin to have a glimmer as to--in fact, I take
it you have an underhold, anchorite. Go in and win."
"I don't know what you mean," said Gard, dully.
"What are you going to do?"
"It doesn't matter. I am going to throw my furlough and join the army."
"When?"
"To-morrow."
Mavering whistled, and then swore softly.
"Why?"
"I'm no better than you are. What business have you and I in heaven with
our damned private job politics? Haven't you learned that yourself?"
They rode away towards the city, and separated at a corner lit dimly by
a street lamp. Gard put his horse to a gallop and clattered away.