"It was more strange than I dare tell you, mother dear," Lois added to
the letter of details which she wrote at odd minutes during the day,
"that that poor old man should have broken down just at our door. There
was a kind of fatality in it, as if he had come to throw himself at our
feet. The son would have gone on if his father had been able to drag
himself another yard; but he wasn't. It was all we could do to get him
up the portico steps and into the nearest seat.
"I wonder if you remember him--old Mr. Fay? If so, you wouldn't know him
now. I can only compare him to a tree that's been attacked at the roots
and shrivels and dries in a season. He seems to have passed from sixty
to ninety in the course of a few months, as if the very principle of
life had failed him. It would be pitiful if it wasn't worse. I mean that
we're afraid it may be worse, though that is a matter which as yet I
mustn't write about.
"The son puzzles me--or rather he would if there were not something in
him like all the other Fays, desperate and yet attractive, appealing and
yet hostile. He looks like his sister, which means that he's handsome,
with those extraordinary eyes of the shade of the paler kinds of jade,
and a "finish" to the features quite unusual in a man. The prison shows
in his pallor, in his cropped hair, and in something furtive in the
glance which, Thor says, will probably pass as he gets used again to
freedom. I remember that Dr. Hilary once said of him that he's the stuff
out of which they make revolutionaries and anarchists. In that case I
should think he might be a valuable addition to the cause, for, as with
Rosie, there's a quality in him that wins you at the very moment when
you're most repelled. He makes you sorry for him. We're sorry for them
all. Even now, with poor Claude lying there, we've no other feeling than
that. We've had enough of retaliations and revenges. Nothing could prove
their uselessness more thoroughly than what happened here last night. If
we could let everything rest where it is, leaving the crime to be its
own punishment, God knows we would do it gladly."
Later in the day she continued: "I wish you could have seen the meeting
between Thor and that poor fellow who has just come out of jail. Thor
was superb--so gentle and kind and tender, and all with an air that
tragic sorrow has made noble. There are things I cannot tell you about
him--that Thor must tell to his father if they're ever told at all--but
this I can say even now, that if any good is to come out of all this it
will be through Thor more than any one. He doesn't see his way as yet,
but he'll find it. He'll find it by the same impulse that made him march
up to Matt Fay, putting his hand on his shoulder and looking him in the
eyes with a simple, man-to-man sympathy which no one could resist. The
very fact that Thor feels so deeply that he's been to blame--very, very
much to blame--gives intensity now to his kindness. As for Matt Fay, he
colored and stammered and shuffled, and though he tried to maintain his
bravado, it was without much success. He was still more embarrassed
when, after the old man had finished his coffee and was able to move
again, Thor ordered Sims to bring round the car and drive the two of
them home. We said nothing to them about Claude. I couldn't have borne
its being mentioned to them here--or to have been obliged to watch the
effect. It would be like having to look on at a vivisection. There are
things I don't want to see or to know. All that is really imperative is
that, whatever the outcome, they should consider us their friends."
The letter was not finished till she was alone that night. She wrote
carefully at first, choosing just the right words. "Thor is sleeping at
the other house, and may continue to do so for some time. He seems to
want to be there--as you can understand. Not only does he make it more
bearable for Uncle Sim and Cousin Amy, but he gets a kind of assuagement
to his grief in being near Claude. You needn't be surprised, therefore,
if he remains a little longer--perhaps longer than you might expect."
Up to this point she had been cautious, but for a minute something less
controlled escaped her. "Oh, mother darling, I want to be a good wife to
Thor, as you've been a good wife to papa. He needs me, and yet in his
inmost heart he's bearing this great trial alone. Don't misunderstand
me. I haven't broken down. Perhaps if I could have broken down a little
it would have brought me nearer to him. But I'm not near to him. There's
the truth. I'm infinitely far away from him. In a sense I'm infinitely
below him; for though I've been right in certain matters in which he has
been wrong, I feel strangely his inferior. He has things on his
conscience for which I know he finds it hard to see the way of
repentance--and I have nothing on mine--nothing, that is, but a vague
discomfort and a sense of not being wholly right--and yet I feel that
he's--how shall I put it?--that he's the nearer to God of us two. He
needs me, and I ought to help him; but it's like helping some one who's
on a tower while I stay on the ground. Oh, mother darling, why can't I
be to him what you've been to papa? What is it that men get from women
which _saves_ them? Thor needs saving just as much as other men, though
you mightn't suppose so. I know you think him perfect, and I used to
think the same; but he's not. He has faults--grave ones. I even know
that he's weak where I'm strong, and that the thing he needs is the
thing I can supply--only I don't supply it. Mother dear, you've given it
to papa or he wouldn't be recovering as he is. Why can't I give it, too?
He's there in that house, and I'm here in this. His heart is aching for
grief, and mine because I don't know how to comfort him--and all because
the glimmer of light that leads me on isn't strong enough. It's better
than nothing; I don't deny that. I can grope my way by it when I might
expect to be utterly bewildered--but, oh, mother dear, it's not love."
But having read this page in the morning, she suppressed and destroyed
it. After the night's rest she was more sure of herself. Since she had
any clue at all she felt it wise to possess her soul in patience and see
to what issue it would lead her. For the passages she withdrew she
substituted, therefore, such an account of Rosie as would put her mother
in touch with that portion of Claude's life.
"It's hard to know how the little thing feels just now," she went on,
when the main facts had been given, "because she's so stunned by dread.
It's the same dread that oppresses us all, but which is so much more
terrible for them. For poor little Rosie the things that have happened
are secondary now to what may happen still. _That_ almost blots Claude
out of her mind. Luckily she has a great deal of pluck--of what in our
old-fashioned New England phrase was called grit. That she'll win in the
end, and come out at last to a kind of happiness, I haven't the least
doubt, especially as she has that fine fellow, Jim Breen, to turn to.
You remember him, don't you? It's touching to see his tenderness to
Rosie, now that she has such a need of him. It's the more touching
because she doesn't give him anything but the most indirect
encouragement. He knows perfectly well that whatever he gets from her
now will be only her second best, but he's grateful even for that.
"She came to me yesterday morning of her own accord, before I could get
word to her. William Sweetapple had heard the news and told her as he
passed the house where they have just gone to live in Susan Street.
Rosie had been early to the door to take in the milk, and Sweetapple was
going by. She flew here at once. I had expected her to be crushed--but
she wasn't. As I've just said, she seemed to be looking forward rather
than looking back. She was looking forward to what I've hinted at and
dare not say, and setting her face as a flint. That is how I can best
describe her--and yet it was as a flint with a wonderful shine on it, as
if something had come to her in the way of inner illumination that used
not to be in her at all. Jim Breen is fond of saying that this is not
the Rosie of a year or two ago, and it isn't. It's not even the Rosie of
the episode with Claude. Her face is now like a lighted lamp as compared
with the time when it was blank. I'm not enough in her confidence to
know exactly what has wrought the change, so that I can only guess. It
seems to me the same thing that has given the mother a new view of life,
only that Rosie has probably come to it by another way. They're
strangely alike, those two--each so tense, so strong, so demanding, each
broken on the wheel, and each with that something firm and fine in the
grain to which the wheel can do no more than impart a higher _patina_ of
polishing. They seem to me to bring down into our rather sugary life
some of the old, narrow, splendidly austere New England qualities that
have almost passed away and to make them bloom--bloom, that is, as the
portulacca blooms, in a parched soil where any other plant would bake,
and yet with an almost painfully vivid brilliancy. Doesn't George
Meredith say in one of his books--is it _The Egoist_?--that the light of
the soul should burn upward? Well, that's what it seems to do in
them--to burn upward with a persistent glow, in spite of conditions that
might reasonably put it out."
"The old man is a mystery to me," she wrote later, "chiefly because it
is so impossible to connect him with any of the things we fear. He
seemed so small and shrunken and harmless as he sat on the portico
yesterday morning, drinking his coffee and munching a slice of toast,
that he appealed to me only as something to be taken care of. That
sinister element which I've seen in him of late had gone altogether,
leaving nothing but his old, faded, dreamy mildness, contented and
appeased. That is the really uncanny thing, that he seems _satisfied_.
He showed no fear of us at all, nor the slightest nervousness, not even
when Thor came. Thor was startled to see him there at first, but I
managed to whisper a word or two in French, so that he went straight up
to Fay and shook hands. I was glad of that. It put us in the right
attitude--that of not trying to find a victim or looking for revenge."
Before adding her next paragraph she weighed its subject-matter
pensively. It was not necessary to her letter; it was nothing her mother
was obliged to know. She decided to say it, however, from an instinct
resembling that of self-preservation. If her mother were ever to hear
anything....
"Thor saw Rosie, too. He was coming down-stairs from taking a bath just
as she was in the hall going away. It was the first time he'd seen her
since before we were married. He was so lovely to her!--I wish I could
tell you! You know he used to be interested in her in the days when her
mother was his only patient. It was through him, if you remember, that
Rosie and I came to be friends in the first place. He asked me to go and
see her, to be nice to her. He feels very strongly that we people of the
old, simple American stock should have held together in a way we haven't
done, and that we shouldn't have allowed money to dig the abyss between
us which I'm afraid is there now. I know that you personally are not
interested in ideals of this kind, and yet Thor wouldn't be the Thor you
love unless he had them. So he was lovely with Rosie, holding her hand,
and looking down at her with those kind eyes of his, and begging her,
whatever happened--_whatever happened_, mind you!--to throw everything
on him in the way they would do if he was brother to them all. People
talk about the brotherhood of man; but there will never be any such
thing as the brotherhood of man till more men, and more women, too, get
the spirit that's in him."
* * * * *
Claude had been a week or more in his grave when the letters began to
arrive from Mrs. Willoughby.
"As to our sailing," she wrote from London, "everything depends on Ena.
My cablegrams will have told you that she's better, but not exactly
_how_. She's better mentally, and very sweet. _I_ think it surprising.
Now that the first shock is past, she's calmer, too, and doesn't say so
often that she expected it. Why she should have expected it I couldn't
make out till last night, when Archie told me that there'd been
something between Claude and a girl named Fay. I remember those Fays;
queer people they always were, and rather uppish. _She_ was a big,
handsome girl when I was a little one. Eliza Grimes was her name, and as
long ago as that she couldn't keep her place. I remember how she came
for a while to Aunt Rachel's school, though not for long. Aunt Rachel
couldn't draw too exclusive a line at first, but she did drop her in the
end. I should never have thought that Claude would take up with a girl
like that--Claude, of all people. You can't run counter to class
distinctions without making trouble, I always say--and you see how it
acts. You and Thor are far too republican, or too democratic, or
whatever it is, but I never thought that of poor Claude.
"Not that Archie attributes this dreadful thing to the connection with
the Fays. He won't hear of any such suggestion. Ena seemed to look on it
at first as a retribution, but Archie insists that there never was
anything to retribute. There may be two opinions about that, though,
mind you, I'm not saying so. To the best of my ability I'm letting
bygones be bygones, as I think I've shown. But Ena certainly thought so
at first, and it's my belief she does still. She's told me herself that
when they were motoring through Devon and Cornwall they never reached
their destination for the night without her being afraid of a cablegram
awaiting their arrival. She was sure something terrible was going to
happen, and knew it before they left home. I asked her in that case why
in the name of goodness they should have come, but she couldn't answer
me. Or, rather, she did answer me--just the kind of answer you'd expect
from her. It was to get some new things, and she's got them. Lovely,
some of them are, especially the dinner-gowns from Mariette's--but with
their money--_and where it comes from_--it's easy to dress. Retribution
indeed! It must be retribution enough for the poor thing just to look at
them. She's already had a woman from Jay's to talk over her mourning.
Seems heartless, doesn't it? but then, of course, she must have it.
Jay's woman had to take her measurements from the gray traveling-suit,
for the doctor won't let her get up for another week, not even to be
fitted. That will show you how far we are from sailing, and poor Archie
has changed the bookings twice.
"As for him, I can't tell, for the life of me, how he feels about being
kept here--he's so frightfully the gentleman. I've always said that he
wore good manners not as his natural face, but as a mask, and I feel it
now more than ever. It's a mask that hides even his tears, though I'm
sure, poor man, they flow fast enough beneath it. All the same, I
suspect that he finds it something of a relief to be held up here--for a
while, at any rate. He wishes he was home, and yet for some reason he's
afraid to get there. Terrible as everything is, I know he feels that it
will be more terrible still when he's on the spot."
It was in a subsequent letter that Mrs. Willoughby wrote: "I had to
scrawl so hurriedly yesterday to catch the first mail that I couldn't
begin at the beginning, or get to the point, or anything. I'll try now,
though, as for the beginning, it's like going back to the dark ages, it
all seems so long ago.
"Your first cablegram giving us the news arrived at Les Dalles in the
middle of the afternoon, and such a scramble as we had to get over to
Havre in time for the night boat! I can't tell you how we felt, for it
was one of those shocks so awful that you don't feel anything. At least
I didn't feel anything, though I can't say the same of your father. He,
poor lamb, has felt it terribly, so sensitive as he is, and so easily
upset. Well, we managed to get to Havre in time, and had a fair
crossing. We reached London about ten in the morning, and of course had
no notion of where Archie and Ena were. So we drove to their bankers,
and, as luck would have it, found they were in London on their way
between Cornwall and the north.
"Once we'd learned that, we came straight to this hotel, and sent up our
cards. After that we waited. Waited! I should say so. Your father got
crosser and crosser, threatening to go away without breaking the news at
all. We knew they thought we'd come to make trouble about old scores,
and were discussing whether or not to see us. When word came at last
that we were to be shown up your father was in such a state that I had
to leave him in the public parlor and go and face it alone.
"I wonder if you've ever had the experience of being ushered into a room
where you could see you weren't wanted? I don't suppose so. I never had
it before, and I hope I never shall again. It was one of those chintzy
English sitting-rooms with flowers in every corner. I shall never see
Shirley poppies again without thinking of poor Claude. Archie was
standing in the middle of the floor, looking more the gentleman than
ever, but no Ena!
"'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Bessie,' he said, with that frigid
sympathy of his which to me is always like iced water down the spine.
'Is there anything I can do for you?'
"We were facing each other, with a round table between us. 'No, Archie,'
I said. 'I didn't come on my account, but on yours.'
"I can see him still--the way he stood--with a queer little upward flash
of the eyebrows. 'Indeed?'
"'Yes. I had a cablegram yesterday afternoon--from Lois.' I gave him
time to take that in. 'We came over at once--Len and I.'
"I had scarcely said this when my heart leaped into my mouth, for Ena
cried out from behind the door leading into the bedroom, where I felt
sure she was: 'It's about Claude!' It was the strangest sound I ever
heard--the kind of sound she might have made if she saw something
falling on her that would kill her.
"Archie stood motionless, but he turned a kind of gray-white. 'Is it?'
was all he asked.
"I waited again--waited long enough to let them see that what I had to
tell was grave. 'It is, Archie,' I said then.
"'Is he--?' Archie began, but I saw he couldn't finish. In fact he
didn't need to finish, because Ena cried out again, 'He's dead!'
"Archie could only question me with his eyes, so that I said, 'I'm sorry
to have been the one to bring you the news--'
"I got no further than that when a kind of strangling moan came from Ena
and a sound as if she was falling. Archie ran into the bedroom, and the
first thing I heard was, 'Bessie, for God's sake come here!' When I got
there Ena was lying in a little tumbled heap beside the couch. She had
on her lilac kimono and could just as well have seen me as not, so I
knew that what we had said down-stairs had been true. They did want to
give us the cold shoulder.
"Well, you can imagine that it was all over with that. We had everything
we could do to bring Ena around and get her on the couch. It took the
longest time, and while we were doing it--before she could follow
anything we said--Archie asked me what I knew, and I told him. I was
glad to be able to do it in just that way, because I could break it up
and get it in by pieces, a fact at a time. There was so much for him to
do, too, that he couldn't give his whole mind to it, which was another
mercy.
"When I could leave Ena I slipped into the sitting-room, shutting the
door behind me, and letting Archie tell her what I had been able to tell
him. While he was doing that I scribbled a little note, saying that Len
and I were going to Garland's, where they would find us in case we could
do anything more to help them. Without waiting for him to come out of
the bedroom, I left the note on the table and went away."
In succeeding letters Mrs. Willoughby told how Archie had come to them
at Garland's, had insisted on their returning with him to the hotel in
Brook Street, and had installed them in a suite of rooms contiguous to
his own. Moreover, he clung to them, begging them not to leave him. It
was the most extraordinary turning of the tables Bessie had ever known.
He produced the impression of a man not only stunned, but terrified. If
the hand that had smitten Claude had been stretched right out of heaven
he could not have seemed more overawed. He was afraid--that was what it
amounted to. If Mrs. Willoughby read him aright, the tragic thing
affected him like the first trumpet-note of doom. It was as if he saw
the house he had built with so much calculation beginning to tumble
down--laid low by some dread power to which he was holding up his hands.
He was holding up his hands not merely in petition, but in propitiation.
She was not blind to the fact that there was a measure of propitiation
in his boarding and lodging her husband and herself. He clung to them
because his desolation needed something that stood for old friendship to
cling to; but in addition to that he had dim visions of the dread power
that had smitten Claude looming up behind them and acting somehow on
their behalf.
"It's all very well to insist that there's nothing to retribute," ran a
passage in one of the letters, "but the poor fellow is saying one thing
with his lips and another in his soul. What's the play in which the
ghosts come back? Is it "Hamlet," or "Macbeth," or one of Ibsen's? Well,
it's like that. He's seeing ghosts. He wants us to be on hand because we
persuade him that they're not there--that they can't be there, so long
as we're all on friendly terms, and that we're not laying up anything
against him. The very fact that he pays our bills makes him hope that
the ghosts will keep away."
"We've promised to go back with them," she informed her daughter
elsewhere. "For one thing, Ena needs me. If I didn't go she'd have to
have a nurse; and I'd rather not leave her till she's safe in your
hands. I must say I can't make her out. She puzzles me more than Archie
does. Now that a week has gone by and the first shock is over, she's
like a person coming out of a trance. She's so sweet and gentle that
it's positively weird. Of course she's always been sweet--that's her
style--but not in this way. Upon my word, I don't know whether she has a
soul or not--whether she never had one, or whether one is being born in
her. But she's patient, and you might even say resigned. There's no
question about that. She's not a bit hard to take care of, making little
or no demand, and just trying to get up strength enough to sail. She's
grieving over Claude; and yet her grief has the touching quality in it
that you get from a sweet old tune. I must say I don't understand
it--_not in her_."
It was when she was able to announce that Mrs. Masterman was well enough
to sail that Mrs. Willoughby acknowledged the first letters from her
daughter. "We go by the _Ruritania_ on the 3rd. Archie is simply furious
at the hints you're all throwing out about that old man Fay. Perfectly
preposterous, is what he calls them. He seems to think that, once he is
on the spot, he'll be able to show every one that Fay had no possible
reason to want to avenge himself, and must therefore be beyond
suspicion. I must say Archie doesn't strike me as vindictive, which is
another surprise, if one could ever be surprised in a Masterman. They're
all queer, Thor as much as any of them, though he's queer in such
lovable ways. I mean that you never can tell what freaks they'll take,
whether for evil or for good. Nothing would astonish me less than to see
Archie himself in sackcloth and ashes one of these days, and I do
believe that it's the thing he's afraid of himself. What he's fighting
in all this business about Fay is his own impulse to do penance. He's
thinking of the figure he'll cut, wearing a shroud and carrying a
lighted candle. Of course it interests us because--well, because it may
turn out to be a matter of dollars and cents. Not that I count on it.
I've put all that behind me, and I must say that your father and I have
never been so happy together as during these last few months. We get
along perfectly on what we have, and we don't lack for anything. Of
course the way in which your father, the sweet lamb, is improving makes
all the difference in the world to me. So Archie needn't repent on our
account. We've let all that go. It only strikes me as funny the way he
can't do enough for us--taxis at the door the minute we put our noses
out--flowers in the sitting-room--and everything. I know perfectly well
what it means. It isn't _us_. He's simply sacrificing to the hoodoo or
the voodoo that he sees behind us--just like any other Masterman."
She added in a postscript: "You can read Thor as much or as little of my
letters as you choose. I don't care--not a bit! I told him before you
were married that I always intended to speak my mind about his father,
like it or lump it who would."