CAPTAIN MORTON ACTS AS COURT HERALD AND MORTY SANDS AND GRANT ADAMS HEAR
SAD NEWS
Spring in Mrs. Nesbit's garden, even in those days when a garden in
Harvey meant chiefly lettuce and radishes and peas, was no casual event.
Spring opened formally for the Nesbits with crocuses and hyacinths;
smiled genially in golden forsythia, bridal wreath and tulips, preened
itself in flags and lilacs before glowing in roses and peonies. Now the
spring is always wise; for it knows what the winter only hopes or fears.
Events burst forth in spring that have been hidden since their seedtime.
And it was with the coming of the first crocuses that Dr. Nesbit found
in his daughter's eyes a joyous look, new and exultant--a look which
never had been inspired by the love he lavished upon her. It was not
meant for him. Yet it was as truly a spring blossom as any that blushed
in the garden. When it came and when the father realized that the mother
also saw it, they feared to speak of it--even to themselves and by
indirection.
For they knew their winter conspiracies had failed. In vain was the trip
to Baltimore; in vain was the week with grand opera in New York, and
they both knew that the proposed trip to Europe never would occur. When
the parents saw that look of triumphant joy in their daughter's face,
when they saw how it lighted up her countenance like a flame when Tom
Van Dorn was near or was on his way to her, they knew that from the
secret recesses of her heart, from the depths of her being, love was
springing. They knew that they could not uproot it, and they had no
heart to try. For they accepted love as a fact of life, and felt that
when once it has seeded and grown upon a heart, it is a part of that
heart and only God's own wisdom and mercy may change the destiny that
love has written upon the life in which love rests. So in the wisdom of
the spring, the parents were mute and sad.
There was no hint of anger in their sorrow. They realized that if she
was wrong, and they were right, she needed them vastly more than if they
were wrong and she was right, and so they tried to rejoice with her--not
of course expressly and baldly, but in a thousand ways that lay about
them, they made her as happy as they could. Their sweet acquiescence in
what she knew was cutting the elders to the quick, gave the girl many an
hour of poignant distress. Yet the purpose of her heart was not moved.
The Satterthwaite in her was dominant.
"Doctor," spoke the wife one morning as they sat alone over their
breakfast, "I think--" She stopped, and he knew she was listening to the
daughter, who was singing in an undertone in the garden.
"Yes," he answered, "so do I. I think they have settled it."
The man dropped his glance to the table before him, where his hands
rested helplessly and cried, "Bedelia--I don't--I don't like it!"
The color of her woe darkened Mrs. Nesbit's face as her features
trembled for a second, before she controlled herself. "No, Jim--no--no!
I don't--I'm afraid--afraid, of I don't know what!"
"Of course, he's of excellent family--the very best!" the wife ventured.
"And he's making money--and has lots of money from his people!" returned
the father.
"And he's a man among men!" added the mother.
"Oh, yes--very much that,--and he's trying to be decent! Honestly,
Bedelia, I believe the fellow's got a new grip on himself!" The Doctor's
voice had regained its timbre; it was just a little hard, and it broke
an instant later as he cried: "O Lord, Lord, mother--we can't fool
ourselves; let's not try!" They looked into the garden, where the girl
stood by the blooming lilacs with her arms filled with blossoms.
At length the mother spoke, "What shall we do?"
"What can we do?" the Doctor echoed. "What can any human creatures do in
these cases! To interfere does no good! The thing is here. Why has it
come? I don't know." He repeated the last sentence piteously, and went
on gently:
"'They say it was a stolen tide--the Lord who sent it, He knows all!'
But why--why--why--did it wash in here? What does it mean? What have we
done--and what--what has she done?"
The little Doctor looked up into the strong face of his wife rather
helplessly, then the time spirit that is after all our sanity--touched
them, and they smiled. "Perhaps, Jim," the smile broke into something
almost like a laugh, "father said something like that to mother the day
I stood among the magnolias trying to pluck courage with the flowers to
tell him that I was going with you!"
They succeeded in raising a miserable little laugh, and he squeezed her
hand.
The girl moved toward the house. The father turned and put on his hat as
he went to meet her. She was a hesitant, self-conscious girl in pink,
who stopped her father as he toddled down the front steps with his
medicine case, and she put her hand upon him, saying:
"Father," she paused, looking eagerly at him, then continued, "there's
the loveliest yellow flag over here." The father smiled, put his arm
about the girl and piped: "So the pink rosebud will take us to the
yellow flag!" They walked across the garden to the flower and she
exclaimed: "Oh, father--isn't it lovely!"
The father looked tenderly into her gray eyes, patted her on the
shoulder and with his arm still about her, he led her to a seat under
the lilacs before the yellow flower. He looked from the flower to her
face and then kissed her as he whispered: "Oh my dear, my dear." She
threw her arms about him and buried her face, all flushed, upon his
shoulder. He felt her quiver under the pressure of his arm and before
she could look at him, she spoke:
"Oh, father! Father! You--you won't--you won't blame--" Then she lifted
up her face to his and cried passionately: "But all the world could not
stop it now--not now! But, oh, father, I want you with me," and she
shook his arm. "You must understand. You must see Tom as I see him,
father." She looked the question of her soul in an anxious, searching
glance. Her father reached for one of her hands and patted it. He gazed
downward at the yellow iris, but did not see it.
"Yes, dear, I know--I understand."
"I was sure that you would know without my spelling it all out to you.
But, oh, father," she cried, "I don't want you and mother to feel as you
do about Tom, for you are wrong. You are all--all wrong!"
The Doctor's fat hand pressed the strong hand of the girl. "Well," he
began slowly, his high-keyed voice was pitched to a soft tone and he
spoke with a woman's gentleness, "Tom's quite a man, but--" he could
only repeat, "quite a man." Then he added gently: "And I feel that he
thinks it's genuine now--his--love for you, daughter." The Doctor's face
twitched, and he swallowed a convulsive little sob as he said,
"Laura--child--can't you see, it really makes no difference about
Tom--not finally!" He blinked and gulped and went on with renewed
courage. "Can't you see, child--you're all we've got--mother and I--and
if you want Tom--why--" his face began to crumple, but he controlled it,
and blurted out, "Why by johnnie you can have him. And what's more," his
voice creaked with emotion as he brought his hand down on his knee, "I'm
going to make Tom the best father-in-law in the whole United States."
His body rocked for a moment as he spurred himself to a last effort.
Then he said: "And mother--mother'll be--mother will--she'll make him--"
he could get no further, but he felt the pressure of her hand, and knew
that she understood. "Mother and I just want you to be happy and if it
takes Tom for that--why Tom's what it takes, I guess--and that's all we
want to know!"
The girl felt the tears on his face as she laid her cheek against his.
Then she spoke: "But you don't know him, father! You don't understand
him! It's beautiful to be able to do what I can do--but," she shuddered,
"it's so awful--I mean all that devil that used to be in him. He is so
ashamed, so sorry--and it's gone--all gone--all, every bit of it gone,
father!" She put her father's hand to her flaming cheek and whispered,
"You think so, don't you, father?"
The father's eyes filled again and his throat choked. "Laura," he said
very gently, "my professional opinion is this: You've a fighting chance
with Tom Van Dorn--about one in ten. He's young. You're a strong,
forceful woman--lots of good Satterthwaite in you, and precious little
of the obliging Nesbits. Now I'll tell you the truth, Laura; Tom's got a
typical cancer on his soul. But he's young; and you're young, and just
now he's undergoing a moral regeneration. You are new blood. You may
purify him. If the moral tissue isn't all rotten, you may cure him."
The girl gripped her father's hand and cried: "But you think I
can--father, you think I can?"
"No," piped the little man sadly, "no, daughter, I don't think you can.
But I hope you can; and if you'd like to know, I'm going to pray the God
that sent me to your mother to give you the sense and power He gave
her." The Doctor smiled, withdrew his arm, and started for the street.
He turned, "And if you do save him, Laura, I'll be mighty proud of you.
For," he squeaked good naturedly, "it's a big job--but when you've done
it you'll have something to show for it--I'll say that for him--you'll
certainly have something to show for it," he repeated. He did not
whistle as he walked down the street and the daughter thought that he
kept his eyes upon the ground. As he was about to pass from her view, he
turned, waved his hand and threw her a kiss, and with it she felt a
blessing.
But curiously enough she saw only one of the goodly company of Doctor
Nesbits that trudged down the hill in his white linen suit, under his
broad-brimmed panama hat. Naturally she hardly might be expected to see
the conscienceless boss of Hancock and Greely counties, who handled the
money of privilege seekers and bought and sold men gayly as a part of
the day's work. Nor could she be expected to see the helpless little man
whose face crumpled, whose heart sank and whose courage melted as he
stood beside her in the garden, the sad, hopeless little man who, as he
went down the hill was captain of the groups that walked under his hat
that hour. The amiable Doctor, who was everybody's friend and was loyal
to those who served him, the daughter neglected that day; and the State
Senator did not attract her. She saw only a gentle, tender,
understanding father, whose love shone out of his face like a beacon and
who threw merry kisses as he disappeared down the hill--a ruddy-faced,
white phantom in a golden spring day!
Some place between his home and Market Street the father retired and the
politician took command of Dr. Nesbit's soul. And he gave thought to the
Nesbit machine. The job of the moment before the machine was to make
George Brotherton, who had the strength of a man who belonged to all the
lodges in town, mayor of Harvey. "Help Harvey Hump" was George's
alliterative slogan, and the translation of the slogan into terms of
Nesbitese was found in a rather elaborate plan to legalize the issuance
of bonds by the coal and oil towns adjacent to Harvey, so that Daniel
Sands could spin out his web of iron and copper and steel,--rails and
wires and pipes into these huddles of shanties that he might sell them
light and heat and power and communication and transportation.
Even the boss--even Old Linen Pants--was not without his sense of humor,
nor without his joyous moments when he relished human nature in large,
raw portions. As he walked down the hill there flashed across his mind a
consciousness of the pride of George Brotherton in his candidacy. That
pride expressed itself in a feud George had with Violet Mauling who,
having achieved stenography, was installed in the offices of Calvin &
Van Dorn as a stenographer--the stenographer in fact. She on her part
was profoundly proud of her job and expressed her pride in overhanging
and exceeding mischievous looking bangs upon her low and rather narrow
brow. In the feud between George and Violet, it was her consecrated task
to keep him waiting as long as possible before admitting him to Van
Dorn's inner room, and it was Mr. Brotherton's idea never to call her by
her right name, nor by any name twice in succession. She was Inez or
Maude or Mabel or Gwendolyn or Pet or Sweetheart or Dearest, in rapid
succession, and in return for his pseudonymnal attentions, Mr.
Brotherton always was sure of receiving from Miss Mauling upon leaving
the office, an elaborately turned-up nose. For Miss Mauling was peevish
and far from happy. She had been conscious for nearly a year that her
power over young Mr. Van Dorn was failing, or that her charms were
waning, or that something was happening to clog or cloy her romance. On
a certain May morning she had sat industriously writing, "When in the
course of human events," "When in the course of human events it becomes
necessary," "When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for
a people to separate--" upon her typewriter, over and over and over
again, while she listened to Captain Morton selling young Mr. Van Dorn a
patent churn, and from the winks and nods and sly digs and nudges the
Captain distributed through his canvass, it was obvious to Miss Mauling
that affairs in certain quarters had reached a point.
That evening at Brotherton's Amen corner, where the gay young blades of
the village were gathered--Captain Morton decided that as court herald
of the community he should proclaim the banns between Thomas Van Dorn
and Laura Nesbit. Naturally he desired a proper entrance into the
conversation for his proclamation, but with the everlasting ting-aling
and tym-ty-tum of Nathan Perry's mandolin and the jangling accompaniment
of Morty's mandolin, opening for the court herald was not easy. Grant
Adams was sitting at the opposite end of the bench from the Captain,
deep in one of Mr. Brotherton's paper bound books--to-wit, "The Stones
of Venice," and young Joe Calvin sadly smoking his first stogy, though
still in his knickerbockers, was greedily feasting his eyes upon a copy
of the pink Police _Gazette_ hanging upon a rack above the counter.
Henry Fenn and Mr. Brotherton were lounging over the cigar case,
discussing matters of state as they affected a county attorney and a
mayor, when the Captain, clearing his throat, addressed Mr. Brotherton
thus:
"George--I sold two patent churns to two bridegrooms to-day--eh?" As the
music stopped the Captain, looking at Henry Fenn, added reflectively:
"Bet you four bits, George, you can't name the other one--what say?" No
one said and the Captain took up his solo. "Well--it's this-away: I see
what I see next door. And I hear what my girls say. So this morning I
sashays around the yard till I meets a certain young lady a standing by
the yaller rose bush next to our line fence and I says: 'Good morning
madam,' I says, 'from what I see and hear and cogitate,' I says, 'it's
getting about time for you to join my list of regular customers.' And
she kind of laughs like a Swiss bellringer's chime--the way she laughs;
and she pretended she didn't understand. So I broadens out and says, 'I
sold Rhody Kollander her first patent rocker the day she came to town to
begin housekeeping with. I sold your pa and ma a patent gate before they
had a fence. I sold Joe Calvin's woman her first apple corer, and I
started Ahab Wright up in housekeeping by selling him a Peerless cooker.
I've sold household necessities to every one of the Mrs. Sandses' and 'y
gory, madam,' I says, 'next to the probate court and the preacher, I'm
about the first necessity of a happy marriage in this man's town,' I
says, 'and it looks to me,' I says, 'it certainly looks to me--' And I
laughs and she laughs, all redded up and asts: 'Well, what are you
selling this spring, Captain?' And I says, 'The Appomattox churn,' and
then one word brought on another and she says finally, 'You just tell
Tom to buy one for the first of our Lares and Penates,' though I got the
last word wrong and tried to sell him Lares and spuds and then Lares and
Murphies before he got what I was drivin' at. But I certainly sold the
other bridegroom, Henry--eh?"
A silence greeted the Captain's remarks. In it the "Stones of Venice"
grew bleak and cold for Grant Adams. He rose and walked rather aimlessly
toward the water cooler in the rear of the store and gulped down two
cups of water. When he came back to the bench the group there was busy
with the Captain's news. But the music did not start again. Morty Sands
sat staring into the pearl inlaid ring around the hole in his mandolin,
and his chin trembled. The talk drifted away from the Captain's
announcement in a moment, and Morty saw Grant Adams standing by the
door, looking through a window into the street. Grant seemed a tower of
strength. For a few minutes Morty tried to restore his soul by thrumming
a tune--a sweet, tinkly little tune, whose words kept dinging in his
head:
"Love comes like a summer sigh, softly o'er us stealing;
Love comes and we wonder why, at love's shrine we're kneeling!"
But that only unsteadied his chin further. So he tucked his mandolin
under his arm, and moved rather stupidly over to Grant Adams. To Morty,
Grant Adams, even though half a dozen years his junior, represented
cousinship and fellowship. As Morty rose Grant stepped through the open
door into the street and stood on the curb. Morty came tiptoeing up to
the great rawboned youth and whispered:
"Grant--Grant--I'm so--so damned unhappy! You don't mind my telling
you--do you?" Grant felt the arm of his cousin tighten around his own
arm. Grant stared at the stars, and Morty gazed at the curb; presently
he drew a deep sigh and said: "Thank you, Grant." He relaxed his hold of
the boy's arm and walked away with his head down, and disappeared around
the corner into the night. Slowly Grant followed him. Once or twice or
perhaps three times he heard Morty trying vainly to thrum the sad little
tune about the waywardness of love.