Great pain paralyses the mind, as the torture of a limb makes the limb
faint and helpless. When the heart-pain can be dealt with as a
separate thing, it is no longer supreme.
This was the difference between Christian and Larry. Her love was
herself, indivisible, a condition of her being. When it ceased, it
would mean that the creature that called herself Christian
Talbot-Lowry had ceased also. During the long, bright morning, after
Larry and Dr. Mangan had departed together, she felt that this had
happened; that the part of her that knew and suffered had gone away,
or was lying dead in her. There was a weight in her breast, she could
feel it, but she scarcely felt pain, only a great bewilderment, an
incredulity that this thing, of whose reality her mind told her, but
without conviction, should have happened to her, just precisely to
her, out of all the people in the world. People have felt this when
that iron shutter that is called Death has fallen between them and
that one who was their share of the world. A part of them, some
plausible imitation of them, can speak and act, and be extolled,
perhaps, for facing the music stoutly; while the stricken thing that
is themselves, is lying prone before the iron shutter; beating on it
with broken hands, calling, and hearing no answer.
It was nearly a month now since Dick Talbot-Lowry had asserted his
paternal rights, and had, following various classic and biblical
precedents, sacrificed his daughter to his own particular formulæ of
religion and politics. He would never know that it had been the appeal
that weakness makes to strength that had given him his victory. When
he spoke to Lady Isabel of his scene with Larry, he told her that he
had nipped the thing in the bud. The damned puppy of a fellow took for
granted that Christian was in love with him; but here she was, going
about as usual, as jolly as a sandboy; "in fact," Dick would say,
plastering up with bromidic mortar the windows of the narrow dwelling
wherein dwelt Lady Isabel's soul, "all's well that ends well!" With
which valuable aphorism, sanctioned by a long and respectable past,
the Major contentedly fed his heart, and tranquillised that of his
wife.
Judith was less confident of the satisfactory end of all things. She
was, in fact, exceedingly indignant that an engagement so entirely
advantageous from all practical points of view should be broken off;
"simply to gratify Papa's imbecile prejudices!" she declared, with her
usual emphasis. "Christian, you were a fool to mind what he said or
did. _He_ wouldn't have died! Not a bit of him! Of course, Mother
has got to agree with him--that's what he married her for!"
"Don't tire me, Judy, please," Christian would say, serenely. "It's
all over now. These discussions only weary me. I assure you my
philosophy is quite equal to the strain!"
"If that's the case, I don't know why you should look like a dying
ghost!"
Judith had never entirely comprehended her younger sister, and she
found her, as she said with indignation to the concurring Bill,
absolutely dark and inscrutable over the whole affair.
"I know it's hit her hard, but nothing will make her admit it. I
detest Spartan Boys!" said Judith.
The Spartan Boy in question, though aware of her sister's ardent
desire to investigate her wounds, had no intention of removing the
cloak that covered them. She wrapped it close about her, so close that
Lady Isabel, while unable to stifle a motherly regret for the wedding
that might have been, thanked heaven that Christian had not "really
cared"; so close that even Judith said that, since Christian had not
been hit too hard, though she regretted the _coup manqué_ she
personally found some consolation in the fact that she would not be
called upon to make apologies for the political aberrations of her
brother-in-law.
The polling day came, and passed with but little excitement.
"You wouldn't har'ly know it," said a voter, who had returned to his
normal avocations after a morning wasted, as he considered, in the
task of recording his vote. "There was a few men drunk in the town.
Which won is it? Bedad, they dunno yet. Father Sweeny it was marched
in the Pribawn boys. Faith, he had them well regulated. Very nate they
marched, very nate entirely. They never were in such rotation!"
The voter bent melancholy and slightly bloodshot eyes upon Christian,
and awaited her reply.
Christian, with her usual miscellaneous company of dogs, was on her
way to visit a woman whose husband had died not long before. Her way
took her along the banks of the Broadwater, and during one of the
frequent pauses, necessitated by the investigations into the private
affairs of water-rats and others, made by her companions, she and
Peter Callaghan had exchanged greetings. He and Christian had fallen
into talk, with the absence of formality that is, perhaps, peculiar to
intercourse between his class and hers. He leant upon his scythe, and
discoursed seriously and courteously. He wore a soft, slouched black
hat, that did not wholly conceal his thick and curly hair, in which
there was scarcely a grey strand, though he was, as he told Christian,
the one age with her father. His white flannel jacket was wrapped
round him, its skirts pushed under the band of his brown frieze
trousers. A red wisp of rag was knotted round his middle, and held all
together. His pale grey and wistful eyes looked at Christian from
above a tangled thicket of grizzled moustache and beard. He suggested
almost equally, a conventional Saint Joseph and a stage-brigand--a
brigand, as it might be, who had joined the Salvation Army. "As old as
I am," he returned, dreamily, to the affair of the morning, "I stepped
it away with them!"
He turned his eyes from Christian's face to the large and sliding
brightness of the river.
There followed a moment of silence that was filled by the yelps of the
little dogs who had marked a water-rat to ground, and the
hobble-de-hoy shouts of the hound puppies, uttered with no definite
idea of the cause of their enthusiasm, but none the less enthusiastic
for that reason.
"Are you the youngest young lady, I beg your pardon?" Peter Callaghan
asked presently. "It's long since I seen you. Your father knows me
well. I remember of one time when the hounds was crossing my land, and
I seen yourself and your sisther taking the hur'ls. I cries out to ye
'me heart'd rise at ye, my darlins!' and the Major, he laughs!"
"I remember jumping the hurdles," said Christian; "I'll tell my father
I met you."
"He gave me permission to cut the 'looha' in these fields," resumed
Peter Callaghan. "I'm thankful to him. I have a good sop of it cut."
He waved a hand; Christian saw, at a little distance, a heap of
rushes, and, seated on it, a girl, of whose presence she had been
unaware. She was very pale, and there was a fixity of sadness about
her. Christian spoke to her, but she did not appear to notice.
"She's my daughter," said Peter Callaghan in his quiet voice. "She
wouldn't know it was to her you spoke. She's dark, the creature.
Blinded she is. She's not long that way."
"How did it happen?" said Christian, in a low voice.
"You could not say," said Peter Callaghan; his dreamy eyes roved again
over the broad river; "God left a hand on her," he said.
Christian went on her way, and the words stayed with her. "God left a
hand on her." There had been no resentment in the father's voice, only
a profound and noble gravity.
"And here am I," thought Christian, "angry and whimpering--"
Mrs. James Barry lived a mile or so farther down the river. Christian
gathered up her pack of terriers, hound puppies, and red setters, with
the farm collie to complete its absurdity, and walked fast. October
was just ending; the willows along the river-bank were yellow, the
reeds in the ditches that ran beneath each fence were greying and
withering. The successive profiles of wood and hill, down the valley
of the river went from orange and brown to a reddish purple, until, in
the large serenity of the autumn evening, they softened to the
universal blue of distance.
Mrs. Barry's farm-house stood a little back from the river. A stream
that widened to a pond, and narrowed again to a stream, divided the
house from the fields that ran between it and the river; the decent
thatched roofs and whitewashed walls of the farm, and the elm trees
that grew beside it, were mirrored in the pond. A flotilla of geese
and ducks paraded, in stately fatuity, to and fro across the mirror. A
battered little wooden bridge, painted green, enabled the people of
the farm to reach the banks of the river. Christian crossed it, and
went up to the open door of the house.
In the kitchen a red-haired woman was seated, rocking a wooden cradle
with her foot while she stitched at a child's frock. Hens, with their
alert and affected reserve of manner, stepped in and out of the
doorway, sometimes slowly, with poised claw, sometimes headlong, with
greedy speed. Christian watched them and the hound puppies (in whose
power of resistance to temptation she had no confidence), while she
talked to the woman of the house, and heard the story of her trouble.
Her husband had been "above in the hospital at Riverstown. He was in
it with a fortnight," said the red-haired woman in the idiom of her
district, the noise of the rocker of the cradle on the earthen floor
beating through her words; "he had a bunch, like, undher his chin, and
they were to cut it." She paused, and the wooden bump of the cradle
filled the pause.
"When they had it cut, he rose up on the table, and all his blood went
from him; only one little tint, I suppose, stopped in him. Afther a
while, the nurse seen the life creeping back in him. 'We have him
yet!' says she to the Docthor. 'I thought he was gone from us!' says
the Docthor." The voice ceased again. The speaker slashed the frock in
her hand at an over-bold hen, who had skipped on to the table beside
her and was pecking hard and sharp at some food on a plate.
"They sent him home then. We thought he was cured entirely. He pulled
out the summer, but he had that langersome way with him through all."
She was silent a moment, then she looked at Christian, with grief,
crowned and omnipotent, on her tragic brow.
"As long as he was alive, I had courage in spite of all, but when I
thinks now of them days, and the courage I had, it goes through me!"
Her red-brown eyes stared through the open door at the path twisting
across the field to the high road.
"Ye'll never see him on that road again, and when I looks up it me
heart gets dark. Sure, now when he's gone, I thinks often, if he'd be
lyin' par'lysed above in the bed, I'd be runnin' about happy!"
When Christian went home Mrs. Barry walked with her to the little
green bridge, and stood there until her visitor reached the bend of
the river where the path passed from her sight.
At the turning Christian looked back and saw the lonely figure
standing at the bridge-head, and again she said to herself: "Here am
I, angry and whimpering!"