Davenant turned away into the moonlit mist. Through it the electric
lamps of Boston, curving in crescent lines by the water's edge, or
sprinkled at random over the hill which the city climbs, shone for him
with the steadiness and quiet comfort inherent in the familiar and the
sure after his long roaming. Lighting a cigarette, he strode along the
cement pavement beside the iron railing below which the river ran
swiftly and soundlessly. At this late hour of the evening he had the
embankment to himself, save for an occasional pair of lovers or a group
of sauntering students. Lights from the dignified old houses--among
which was Rodney Temple's--overlooking the embankment and the Charles
threw out a pleasant glow of friendliness. Beyond the river a giant
shadow looming through the mist reminded him of the Roman Colisseum seen
in a like aspect, the resemblance being accentuated in his imagination
by the Stadium's vast silence, by its rows upon rows of ghostly gray
sedilia looking down on a haunted, empty ring. His thoughts strayed to
Rome, to Cairo, to Calcutta, to Singapore, to the stages of those two
patient journeys round the world, made from a sense of duty, in search
of a widening of that sheerly human knowledge which life had hitherto
denied him. Having started from London and got back to London again, he
saw how imperfectly he had profited by his opportunities, how much he
had missed. It was characteristic of him to begin all over again, and
more thoroughly, conscientiously revisiting the Pyramids, the Parthenon,
and the Taj Mahal, endeavoring to capture some of that true spirit of
appreciation of which he read in books.
In his way he was not wholly unsuccessful, since by dint of steady
gazing he heightened his perceptive powers, whether it were for Notre
Dame, the Sistine Madonna, or the Alps, each of which he took with the
same seriousness. What eluded him was precisely that human element which
was the primary object of his quest. He learned to recognize the beauty
of a picture or a mountain more or less at sight; but the soul of these
things, of which he thought more than of their outward aspects, the soul
that looks through the eyes and speaks with the tongues of peoples,
remained inaccessible to his yearnings. He was always outside--never
more than a tourist. He made acquaintances by the wayside easily enough,
but only of the rootless variety, beginning without an introduction and
ending without a farewell. There was nothing that "belonged" to him,
nothing to which he himself "belonged."
It was the persistency of the defect that had marked most of his life,
even that portion of it spent in Boston and Waverton--the places he
called "home." He was their citizen only by adoption, as only by
adoption he was the son of Tom and Sarah Davenant. That intimate
claim--the claim on the family, the claim on the soil--which springs of
birth and antedates it was not his, and something had always been
lacking to his life because of the deficiency. Too healthily genial to
feel this want more than obscurely, he nevertheless had tried to remedy
it by resorting to the obvious means. He had tried to fall in love, with
a view to marriage and a family. Once, perhaps twice, he might have been
successful had it not been for the intrusive recollection of a moment,
years before, when a girl whom he knew to be proud without suspecting
how proud she was had in answer to the first passionate words he ever
uttered started to her feet, and, fanning herself languidly, walked
away. The memory of that instant froze on his tongue words that might
have made him happy, sending him back into his solitary ways. They were
ways, as he saw plainly enough, that led no whither; for which reason he
had endeavored, as soon as he was financially justified, to get out of
them by taking a long holiday and traveling round the world.
He was approaching the end of his second journey when the realization
came to him that as far as his great object was concerned the
undertaking had been a failure. He was as much outside the broader
current of human sympathies as ever. Then, all at once, he began to see
the reason why.
The first promptings to this discovery came to him one spring evening as
he stood on the deck of the steam-launch he had hired at Shanghai to go
up and down the Yangste-Kiang. Born in China, the son of a medical
missionary, he had taken a notion to visit his birthplace at Hankow. It
was a pilgrimage he had shirked on his first trip to that country, a
neglect for which he afterward reproached himself. All things
considered, to make it was as little as he could do in memory of the
brave man and woman to whom he owed his existence.
Before this visit it must be admitted, Rufus and Corinna Hallett, his
parents according to the flesh, had been as remote and mythical to the
mind of Peter Davenant as the Dragon's Teeth to their progeny, the
Spartans. Merely in the most commonplace kind of data he was but poorly
supplied concerning them. He knew his father had once been a zealous
young doctor in Graylands, Illinois, and had later become one of the
pioneers of medical enterprise in the mission field; he knew, too, that
he had already worked for some years at Hankow before he met and married
Miss Corinna Meecham, formerly of Drayton, Georgia, but at that time a
teacher in a Chinese school supported by one of the great American
churches. Events after that seemed to have followed rapidly. Within a
few years the babe who was to become Peter Davenant had seen the light,
the mother had died, and the father had perished as the victim of a
rising in the interior of Hupeh. The child, being taken to America, and
unclaimed by relatives, was brought up in the institution maintained for
such cases by the Missionary Board of the church to which his father and
mother had given their services. He had lived there till, when he was
seven years old, Tom and Sarah Davenant, childless and yet longing for
a child, had adopted him.
These short and simple annals furnished all that Davenant knew of his
own origin; but after the visit to Hankow the personality of his parents
at least became more vivid. He met old people who could vaguely recall
them. He saw entries in the hospital records made by his father's hand.
He stood by his mother's grave. As for his father's grave, if he had
one, it was like that of Moses, on some lonely Nebo in Hupeh known to
God alone. In the compound Davenant saw the spot on which his father's
simple house had stood--the house in which he himself was born--though a
wing of the modern hospital now covered it. It was a relief to him to
find that, except for the proximity of the lepers' ward and the opium
refuge, the place, with its trim lawns, its roses, its clematis, its
azaleas, its wistaria, had the sweetness of an English rectory garden.
He liked to think that Corinna Meecham had been able to escape from her
duties in the crowded, fetid, multi-colored city right outside the gates
to something like peace and decency within these quiet walls.
He was not a born traveler; still less was he an explorer. At the end of
three days he was glad to take leave of his hosts at the hospital, and
turn his launch down the river toward the civilization of Shanghai. But
it was on the very afternoon of his departure that the ideas came to him
which ultimately took him back to Boston, and of which he was now
thinking as he strolled through the silvery mist beside the Charles.
He had been standing then on the deck of his steam-launch gazing beyond
the river, with its crowding, outlandish junks, beyond the towns and
villages huddled along the banks, beyond walls gay with wistaria, beyond
green rice-fields stretching into the horizon, to where a flaming sunset
covered half the sky--a sunset which itself seemed hostile, mysterious,
alien, Mongolian. He was thinking that it was on just this scene that
his father and mother had looked year upon year before his birth. He
wondered how it was that it had had no prenatal influence on himself. He
wondered how it was that all their devotion had ended with themselves,
that their altruism had died when Corinna Meecham's soul had passed-away
and Rufus Hallett, like another Stephen, had fallen on his knees beneath
the missiles of the villagers to whom he was coming with relief. They
had spent their lives in the service of others; he had spent his in his
own. It was curious. If there was anything in heredity, he ought to have
felt at least some faint impulse from their zeal; but he never had. He
could not remember that he had ever done anything for any one. He could
not remember that he had ever seen the need of it. It was curious. He
mused on it--mused on the odd differences between one generation and
another, and on the queer way in which what is light to the father will
sometimes become darkness in the son.
It was then that he found the question raising itself within him, "Is
that what's wrong with me?"
The query took him by surprise. It was so out of keeping with his
particular kind of self-respect that he found it almost droll. If he
had never _given_ himself to others, as his parents had, he had
certainly paid the world all he owed it. He had nothing wherewith to
reproach himself on that score. It had been a matter of satisfaction
amounting to pride that he had made his bit of money without resorting
in any single instance to methods that could be considered shady. If
complaint or criticism could not reach him here, it could not reach him
anywhere. Therefore the question as to whether there was anything wrong
in his attitude toward others was so patently absurd that it could
easily be dismissed.
He dismissed it promptly, but it came again. It came repeatedly during
that spring and summer. It forced itself on his attention. It became, in
its way, the recurrent companion of his journey. It turned up
unexpectedly at all sorts of times and in all sorts of places, and on
each occasion with an increased comprehension on his side of its
pertinence. He could look back now and trace the stages by which his
understanding of it had progressed. There was a certain small happening
in a restaurant at Yokohama; there was an accident on the dock at
Vancouver; there was a conversation on a moonlight evening up at Banff;
there was an incident during a drive in the Yosemite; these were
mile-stones on the road by which his mind had traveled on to seize the
fact that the want of touch between him and his fellow-men might be due
to the suppression of some essentially human force within himself. It
came to him that something might, after all, have been transmitted from
Hupeh and Hankow of which he had never hitherto suspected the existence.
It cannot be said that his self-questioning had produced any answer more
definite than that before he found himself journeying back toward
Boston. The final impulse had been given him while he was still
loitering aimlessly in Chicago by a letter from Mrs. Temple.
"If you have nothing better to do, dear Peter," she wrote, "we shall be
delighted if you can come to us for a week or two. Dear Drusilla is with
us once again, and you can imagine our joy at having her. It would seem
like old times if you were here to complete the little circle. The room
you used to have in your college vacations--after dear Tom and Sarah
were taken from us--is all ready for you; and Drusilla would like to
know you were here to occupy it just as much as we."
In accepting this invitation Davenant knew himself to be drawn by a
variety of strands of motive, no one of which had much force in itself,
but which when woven together lent one another strength. Now that he had
come, he was glad to have done it, since in the combination of
circumstances he felt there must be an acknowledged need of a young man,
a strong man, a man capable of shouldering responsibilities. He would
have been astonished to think that that could be gainsaid.
The feeling was confirmed in him after he had watched the tip of his
smoked-out cigarette drop, like a tiny star, into the current of the
Charles, and had re-entered Rodney Temple's house.
"Here's Peter!"
It was Drusilla's voice, with a sob in it. She was sitting on the
stairs, three steps from the top, huddled into a voluminous
mauve-and-white dressing-gown. In the one dim light burning in the hall
her big black eyes gleamed tragically, as those of certain animals gleam
in dusk.
"Oh, Peter, dear, I'm so glad you've come! The most awful thing has
happened."
That was Mrs. Temple who, wrapped in something fleecy in texture and
pink in hue, was crouched on the lowest step, looking more than ever
like a tea-cozy dropped by accident.
"What's the matter?" Davenant asked, too deeply astonished even to take
off his hat. "Is it burglars? Where's the professor?"
"He's gone to bed. It isn't burglars. I wish it was. It's something far,
far worse. Collins told Drusilla. Oh, I know it's true--though Rodney
wouldn't say so. I simply ... _know_ ... it's ... _true_."
"Oh, it's true," Drusilla corroborated. "I knew that the minute Collins
began to speak. It explains everything--all the little queernesses I've
noticed ever since I came home--and everything."
"What is it?" Peter asked again. "Who's Collins? And what has he said?"
"It isn't a he; it's a she," Drusilla explained. "She's my maid. I knew
the minute I came into the room that she'd got something on her mind--I
knew it by the way she took my wrapper from the wardrobe and laid it on
the bed. It was too awful!"
"What was too awful? The way she laid your wrapper on the bed?"
"No; what she told me. And I _know_ it's true."
"Well, for the Lord's sake, Drusilla, what is it?"
Drusilla began to narrate. She had forborne, she said, to put any
questions till she was being "undone"; but in that attitude, favorable
for confidence, she had asked Collins over her shoulder if anything
troubled her, and Collins had told her tale. Briefly, it was to the
effect that some of the most distinguished kitchens in Boston and
Waverton had been divided into two factions, one pro and the other
contra, ever since the day, now three weeks ago, when Miss Maggie
Murphy, whose position of honorable service at Lawyer Benn's enabled her
to profit by the hints dropped at that eminent man's table, had
announced, in the servant's dining-room of Tory Hill itself, that Henry
Guion was "going to be put in jail." He had stolen Mrs. Clay's money,
and Mrs. Rodman's money, "and a lot of other payple's money, too," Miss
Murphy was able to affirm--clients for whom Guion, Maxwell & Guion had
long acted as trustees--and was now to be tried and sentenced, Lawyer
Benn himself being put in charge of the affair by the parties wronged.
Drusilla described the sinking of her own heart as these bits of
information were given her, though she had not failed to reprimand
Collins for the repetition of foolish gossip. This, it seemed, had put
Collins on her mettle in defense of her own order, and she had replied
that, if it came to that, m'm, the contents of the waste-paper baskets
at Tory Hill, though slightly damaged, had borne ample testimony to the
truth of the tale as Miss Maggie Murphy told it. If Mrs. Fane required
documentary evidence, Collins herself was in a position to supply it,
through the kindness of her colleagues in Henry Guion's employ.
Davenant listened in silence. "So the thing is out?" was his only
comment.
"It's out--and all over the place," Drusilla answered, tearfully. "We're
the only people who haven't known it--but it's always that way with
those who are most concerned."
"And over three hundred guests invited to Olivia's wedding next Thursday
fortnight! And the British Military Attaché coming from Washington! And
Lord Woolwich from Ottawa! What's to happen _I_ don't know."
Mrs. Temple raised her hands and let them drop heavily.
"Oh, Peter, can't you do anything?"
"What can he do, child? If Henry's been making away with all that money
it would take a fortune to--"
"Oh, men can do things--in business," Drusilla asserted. "I know they
can. Banks lend them money, _don't_ they, Peter? Banks are always
lending money to tide people over. I've often heard of it. Oh, Peter,
_do_ something. I'm so glad you're here. It seems like a providence."
"Colonel Ashley will be here next week, too," Mrs. Temple groaned, as
though the fact brought comfort.
"Oh, mother dear, don't _speak_ of him!" Drusilla put up her two hands,
palms outward, before her averted face, as though to banish the
suggestion. "If you'd ever known him you'd see how impossible--how
_impossible_--this kind of situation is for a man like him. Poor, poor
Olivia! It's impossible for her, too, I know; but then we
Americans--well, we're more used to things. But one thing is certain,
anyhow," she continued, rising in her place on the stairs and stretching
out her hand oratorically: "If this happens I shall never go back to
Southsea--never, never!--no, nor to Silchester. With my temperament I
couldn't face it. My career will be over. There'll be nothing left for
_me_, mother dear, but to stay at home with father and you."
Mrs. Temple rose, sighing heavily. "Well, I suppose we must go to bed,
though I must say it seems harder to do that than almost anything. None
of us'll sleep."
"Oh, Peter, _won't_ you do something?"
Drusilla's hands were clasped beneath an imploring face, slightly tilted
to one side. Her black hair had begun to tumble to her shoulders.
"I'll--I'll think it over," was all he could find to answer.
"Oh, _thank_ you, Peter! I must say it seems like a providence--your
being here. With my temperament I always feel that there's nothing like
a big strong man to lean on."
The ladies retired, leaving him to put out the light. For a long time he
stood, as he had entered, just inside the front door leaning on his
stick and wearing his hat and overcoat. He was musing rather than
thinking, musing on the odd way in which he seemed almost to have been
waited for. Then, irrelevantly perhaps, there shot across his memory the
phrases used by Rodney Temple less than an hour ago:
"Some call it conscience. Some call it God. Some call it neither. But,"
he added, slowly, "some _do_ call it God."