THE DILLON CLAN.
After the reception Arthur Dillon fell easily into the good graces of
the clan, and found his place quite naturally; but like the suspicious
intruder his ears and eyes remained wide open to catch the general
sentiment about himself, and the varying opinions as to his manners and
character. He began to perceive by degrees the magnitude of the task
which he had imposed upon himself; the act of disappearing was but a
trifle compared with the relationships crowding upon him in his new
environment. He would be forced to maintain them all with some likeness
to the method which would have come naturally to the real Dillon. The
clan made it easy for him. Since allowance had to be conceded to his
sickly condition, they formed no decisive opinions about him, accepting
pleasantly, until health and humor would urge him to speak of his own
accord, Anne's cloudy story of his adventures, of luck in the mines, and
of excuses for his long silence. All observed the new element in his
disposition; the boy who had been too heedless and headlong to notice
anything but what pleased him, now saw everything; and kept at the same
time a careful reserve about his past and present experiences, which
impressed his friends and filled Judy Haskell with dread.
"Tommy Higgins," she said, to Anne in an interval of housework, "kem
home from Texas pritty much the same, with a face an him as long as yer
arm, an' his mouth shut up like an old door. Even himself cudn't open
it. He spint money free, an' av coorse that talked for him. But wan day,
whin his mother was thryin' an a velvet sack he bought for her, an'
fightin' him bekase there was no fur collar to id, in walked his wife
an' three childher to him an' her, an' shtayed wid her ever afther.
Begob, she never said another word about fur collars, an' she never got
another velvet sack till she died. Tommy had money, enough to kape them
all decent, bud not enough for velvet and silk an' joolry. From that
minnit he got back his tongue, an' he talked himself almost to death
about what he didn't do, an' what he did do in Californy. So they med
him a tax-collecthor an' a shtump-speaker right away, an' that saved his
neighbors from dyin' o' fatague lishtenin' to his lies. Take care, Anne
Dillon, that this b'y o' yours hastn't a wife somewhere."
Anne was in the precise attitude of old Mrs. Higgins when her son's wife
arrived, fitting a winter cloak to her trim figure. At the sudden
suggestion she sat down overcome.
"Oh, God forgive you, Judy," said she, "even to mention such a thing. I
forbid you ever to speak of it again. I don't care what woman came in
the door, I'd turn her out like a thramp. He's mine, I've been widout
him ten years, and I'm going to hold him now against every schemin'
woman in the world."
"Faith," said Judy, "I don't want to see another woman in the house anny
more than yerself. I'm on'y warnin' yez. It 'ud jist break my heart to
lose the grandher he's afther puttin' on yez."
The two women looked about them with mournful admiration. The house,
perfect in its furnishings, delighted the womanly taste. In Anne's
wardrobe hung such a collection of millinery, dresses, ornaments, that
the mere thought of losing it saddened their hearts. And the loss of
that future which Anne Dillon had seen in her own day-dreams ... she
turned savagely on Judy.
"You were born wid an evil eye, Judy Haskell," cried she, "to see things
no wan but you would ever think of. Never mention them again."
"Lemme tell ye thin that there's others who have somethin' to say
besides meself. If they're in a wondher over Artie, they're in a greater
wondher over Artie's mother, buyin' silks, an' satins, an' jools like an
acthress, an' dhressin' as gay as a greenhorn jist over from Ireland."
"They're jealous, an' I'm goin' to make them more so," said Anne with a
gleeful laugh, as she flung away care and turned to the mirror. For the
first time since her youth she had become a scandal to her friends.
Judy kept Arthur well informed of the general feeling and the common
opinion, and he took pains not only to soothe his mother's fright but
also to explain the little matters which irritated her friends. Mrs.
Everard did not regard the change in Anne with complacency.
"Arthur is changed for the better, but his mother for the worse," she
said to Judy, certain that the old lady would retail it to her mistress.
"A woman of fifty, that always dressed in dark colors, sensibly, to take
all at once to red, and yellow, and blue, and to order bonnets like the
Empress Eugenie's ... well, one can't call her crazy, but she's on the
way."
"She has the money," sighed Mona, who had none.
"Sure she always had that kind of taste," said Judy in defence, "an'
whin her eyes was blue an' her hair yalla, I dunno but high colors wint
well enough. Her father always dhressed her well. Anyhow she's goin' to
make up for all the years she had to dhress like an undertaker.
Yistherday it was a gran' opery-cloak, as soon as Artie tould her he had
taken four opery sates for the season."
The ladies gasped, and Mona clapped her hands at the prospect of
unlimited opera, for Anne had always been kind to her in such matters.
"But all that's nawthin'," Judy went on demurely, "to what's comin' next
week. It's a secret o' coorse, an' I wudn't have yez mintion it for the
world, though yez'll hear it soon enough. Micksheen has a new cage all
silver an' goold, an' Artie says he has a piddygree, which manes that
they kep' thrack of him as far back as Adam an' Eve, as they do for
lords an' ladies; though how anny of 'em can get beyant Noah an' the ark
bates me. Now they're puttin' Micksheen in condition, which manes all
sorts of nonsense, an' plenty o' throuble for the poor cat, that does be
bawlin' all over the house night an' day wid the dhread of it, an'
lukkin' up at me pitiful to save him from what's comin'. Artie has
enthered his name at the polis headquarthers somewhere, that he's a
prize cat, an' he's to be sint in the cage to the cat show to win a
prize over fifty thousand other cats wid piddygrees. They wanted me to
attind on Micksheen, but I sed no, an' so they've hired a darky in a
uniform to luk after him. An' wanst a day Anne is goin' to march up to
the show in a different dhress, an' luk in at Micksheen."
At this point Judy's demureness gave way and she laughed till the tears
came. The others could not but join.
"Well, that's the top of the hill," said Mrs. Everard. "Surely Arthur
ought to know enough to stop that tomfoolery. If he doesn't I will, I
declare."
Arthur however gave the affair a very different complexion when she
mentioned it.
"Micksheen is a blooded cat," said he, "for Vandervelt presented it to
the Senator, who gave it to mother. And I suggested the cat-show for two
reasons: mother's life has not been any too bright, and I had a big
share in darkening it; so I'm going to crowd as much fun into it as she
is willing to stand. Then I want to see how Micksheen stands in the
community. His looks are finer than his pedigree, which is very good.
And I want every one to know that there's nothing too good in New York
for mother, and that she's going to have a share in all the fun that's
going."
"That's just like you, and I wish you luck," said Mary Everard.
Not only did he go about explaining, and mollifying public sentiment
himself, he also secured the services of Sister Mary Magdalen for the
same useful end. The nun was a puzzle to him. Encased in her religious
habit like a knight in armor, her face framed in the white gamp and
black veil, her hands hidden in her long sleeves, she seemed to him a
fine automaton, with a sweet voice and some surprising movements; for he
could not measure her, nor form any impression of her, nor see a line of
her natural disposition. Her human side appeared very clearly in her
influence with the clan, her sincere and affectionate interest in
himself, and her appetite for news in detail. Had she not made him live
over again the late reception by her questions as to what was done, what
everybody said, and what the ladies wore? Unwearied in aiding the needy,
she brought him people of all sorts and conditions, in whom he took not
the slightest interest, and besought his charity for them. He gave it in
exchange for her good will, making her clearly understand that the
change in his mother's habits must not lead to anything like annoyance
from her old friends and neighbors.
"Oh, dear, no," she exclaimed, "for annoyance would only remove you from
our midst, and deprive us of a great benefactor, for I am sure you will
prove to be that. May I introduce to you my friend, Miss Edith
Conyngham?"
He bowed to the apparition which came forward, seized his hands, held
them and patted them affectionately, despite his efforts to release
them.
"We all seem to have known you since childhood," was her apology.
The small, dark woman, pale as a dying nun, irritated him. Blue glasses
concealed her eyes, and an ugly costume concealed her figure; she came
out of an obscure corner behind the nun, and fell back into it
noiselessly, but her voice and manner had the smoothness of velvet. He
looked at her hands patting his own, and found them very soft, white,
untouched by age, and a curious contrast to her gray hair. Interest
touching him faintly he responded to her warmth, and looked closely into
the blue glasses with a smile. Immediately the little woman sank back
into her corner. Long after he settled the doubt which assailed him at
that moment, if there were not significance in her look and words and
manner. Sister Magdalen bored him ten minutes with her history. He must
surely take an interest in her ... great friend of his father's ... and
indeed of his friends ... her whole life devoted to religion and the
poor ... the recklessness of others had driven her from a convent where
she had been highly esteemed ... she had to be vindicated ... her case
was well on the way to trial ... nothing should be left undone to make
it a triumph. Rather dryly he promised his aid, wondering if he had
really caught the true meaning of the little woman's behavior. He gave
up suspicion when Judy provided Miss Conyngham with a character.
"This is the way of it," said Judy, "an' it's aisy to undhershtan' ...
thin agin I dinno as it's so aisy ... but annyway she was a sisther in a
convent out west, an' widout lave or license they put her out, bekase
she wudn't do what the head wan ordhered her to do. So now she's in New
York, an' Sisther Mary Mag Dillon is lukkin afther her, an' says she
must be righted if the Pope himself has to do it. We all have pity an
her, knowin' her people as we did. A smarter girl never opened a book in
Ameriky. An' I'm her godmother."
"Then we must do something for her," said the master kindly in
compliment to Judy. After his mother and Judy none appealed to him like
the women of the Everard home. The motherly grace of Mary and the
youthful charm of beautiful Mona attracted him naturally; from them he
picked up stray features of Arthur Dillon's character; but that which
drew him to them utterly was his love for Louis. Never had any boy, he
believed, so profoundly the love of mother and sister. The sun rose and
set with him for the Everards, and beautiful eyes deepened in beauty and
flashed with joy when they rested on him. Arthur found no difficulty in
learning from them the simple story of the lad's childhood and youth.
"How did it happen," he inquired of Mary, "that he took up the idea of
being a priest? It was not in his mind ten years back?"
"He was the priest from his birth," she answered proudly. "Just seven
months old he was when a first cousin of mine paid us a visit. He was a
young man, ordained about a week, ... we had waited and prayed for that
sight ten years ... he sang the Mass for us and blessed us all. It was
beautiful to see, the boy we had known all his life, to come among us a
priest, and to say Mass in front of Father O'Donnell--I never can call
him Monsignor--with the sweetest voice you ever heard. Well, the first
thing he did when he came to my house and Louis was a fat, hearty baby
in the cradle, was to take him in his arms, look into his face a little
while, and then kiss him. And I'll never forget the words he said."
Her dark eyes were moist, but a smile lighted up her calm face.
"Mary," he said to me, "this boy should be the first priest of the next
generation. I'll bless him to that end, and do you offer him to God. And
I did. He was the roughest child of all mine, and showed very little of
the spirit of piety as he grew up. But he was always the best boy to his
own. He had the heart for us all, and never took his play till he was
sure the house was well served. Nothing was said to him about being a
priest. That was left to God. One winter he began to keep a little
diary, and I saw in it that he was going often to Mass on week days, and
often to confession. He was working then with his father in the office,
since he did not care much for school. Then the next thing I knew he
came to me one night and put his arms about me to say that he wished to
be a priest, to go to college, and that this very cousin who had blessed
him in the cradle had urged him to make known the wish that was in him,
for it seems he discovered what we only hoped for. And so he has been
coming and going ever since, a blessing to the house, and sure I don't
know how I shall get along without him when he goes to the seminary next
year."
"Nor I," said Arthur with a start. "How can you ever think of giving him
up?"
"That's the first thing we have to learn," she replied with a smile at
his passion. "The children all leave the house in time one way or
another. It's only a question of giving him to God's service or to the
service of another woman. I could never be jealous of God."
He laughed at this suggestion of jealousy in a mother. Of course she
must hate the woman who robs her of her son, and secures a greater love
than a mother ever knew. The ways of nature, or God, are indeed hard to
the flesh. He thought of this as he sat in the attic room with his
light-hearted chum. He envied him the love and reverence of these good
women, envied him that he had been offered to God in his infancy; and in
his envy felt a satisfaction that very soon these affectionate souls
would soon have to give Louis up to Another. To him this small room was
like a shrine, sacred, undefiled, the enclosure of a young creature
specially called to the service of man, perfumed by innocence, cared for
by angels, let down from heaven into a house on Cherry Street. Louis had
no such fancies, but flung aside his books, shoved his chum into a
chair, placed his feet on a stool, put a cigar in his mouth and lighted
it for him, pulled his whiskers, and ordered the latest instalment of
Dillon's Dark Doings in Dugout. Then the legends of life in California
began. Sometimes, after supper, a knock was heard at the door, and there
entered two little sisters, who must hear a bear-story from Arthur, and
kiss the big brother good-night; two delicate flowers on the rough stem
of life, that filled Horace Endicott with bitterness and joy when he
gathered them into his embrace; the bitterness of hate, the joy of
escape from paternity. What softness, what beauty, what fragrance in the
cherubs! _Trumps_, their big brother called them, but the world knew
them as Marguerite and Constance, and they shared the human repugnance
to an early bed.
"You ought to be glad to go to bed," Arthur said, "when you go to sleep
so fast, and dream beautiful dreams about angels."
"But I don't dream of angels," said Marguerite sadly. "Night before last
I dreamed a big black man came out of a cellar, and took baby away,"
casting a look of love at Constance in her brother's arms.
"And I dreamed," said Constance, with a queer little pucker of her
mouth, "that she was all on fire, in her dress, and----"
This was the limit of her language, for the thought of her sister on
fire overwhelmed the words at her command.
"And baby woke up," the elder continued--for she was a second mother to
Constance, and pieced out all her deficiencies and did penance for her
sins--"and she said to mother, 'throw water on Marguerite to put her
out.'"
"What sad dreams," Arthur said. "Tell Father O'Donnell about them."
"She has other things to tell him," Louis said with a grin. "I have no
doubt you could help her, Artie. She must go to confession sometime, and
she has no sins to tell. The other day when I was setting out for
confession she asked me not to tell all my sins to the priest, but to
hold back a few and give them to her for her confession. Now you have
enough to spare for that honest use, I think."
"Oh, please, dear cousin Artie," said the child, thrilling his heart
with the touch of her tender lips on his cheek.
"There's no doubt I have enough," he cried with a secret groan. "When
you are ready to go, Marguerite, I will give you all you want."
The history of Arthur's stay in California was drawn entirely from his
travels on the Pacific slope, tedious to the narrator, but interesting
because of the lad's interest, and because of the picture which the rapt
listener made. His study-desk near by, strewn with papers and books, the
white bed and bookcase farther off, pictures and mottoes of his own
selection on the white walls, a little altar in the depths of the
dormer-window; and the lord of the little domain in the foreground,
hands on knees, lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes fixed and dreamy,
seeing the rich colors and varied action as soon as words conveyed the
story to the ear; a perfect picture of the listening boy, to whom
experience like a wandering minstrel sings the glory of the future in
the happenings of the past.
Arthur invariably closed his story with a fit of sighing. That happy
past made his present fate heavy indeed. Horace Endicott rose strong in
him then and protested bitterly against Arthur Dillon as a usurper; but
sure there never was a gentler usurper, for he surrendered so willingly
and promptly that Endicott fled again into his voluntary obscurity.
Louis comforted those heavy moments with soft word and gentle touch,
pulling his beard lovingly, smoothing his hair, lighting for him a fresh
cigar, asking no questions, and, when the dark humor deepened,
exorcising the evil spirit with a sprinkling of holy water. Prayers were
said together--an overpowering moment for the man who rarely prayed to
see this faith and its devotion in the boy--and then to bed, where Louis
invariably woke to the incidents of the day and retailed them for an
hour to his amused ear; and with the last word fell into instant and
balmy sleep. Oh, this wonder of unconscious boyhood! Had this
sad-hearted man ever known that blissful state? He lay there listening
to the soft and regular breathing of the child, who knew so little of
life and evil. At last he fell asleep moaning. It was Louis who woke
with a sense of fright, felt that his bedfellow was gone, and heard his
voice at the other side of the room, an agonized voice that chilled him.
"To go back would be to kill her ... but I must go back ... and then the
trail of blood over all...."
Louis leaped out of bed, and lit the night-candle. Arthur stood beside
the altar in the dormer-window, motionless, with pallid face and open
eyes that saw nothing.
"Why should such a wretch live and I be suffering?--she suffers too ...
but not enough ... the child ... oh, that was the worst ... the child
... my child...."
The low voice gave out the words distinctly and without passion, as of
one repeating what was told to him. Rid of fear Louis slapped him on the
shoulder and shook him, laughing into his astonished face when sense
came back to him.
"It's like a scene, or a skene from Macbeth," he said. "Say, Artie, you
had better make open confession of your sins. Why should you want to
kill her, and put the trail of blood over it all?"
"I said that, did I?" He thought a moment, then put his arms about
Louis. They were sitting on the side of the bed.
"You must know it sometime, Louis. It is only for your ear now. I had a
wife ... she was worthless ... she lives ... that is all."
"And your child? you spoke of a child?"
Arthur shook with a chill and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"No," he groaned, "no ... thank God for that ... I had no child."
After a little they went back to bed, and Louis made light of everything
with stories of his own sleep-walking until he fell asleep again. The
candle was left burning. Misfortune rose and sat looking at the boy
curiously. With the luck of the average man, he might have been father
to a boy like this, a girl like Mona with beautiful hair and a golden
heart, soft sweet babies like the Trumps. He leaned over and studied the
sleeping face, so sweetly mournful, so like death, yet more spiritual,
for the soul was there still. In this face the senses had lost their
daylight influence, had withdrawn into the shadows; and now the light of
innocence, the light of a beautiful soul, the light that never was on
land or sea, shone out of the still features. A feeling which had never
touched his nature before took fierce possession of him, and shook him
as a tiger shakes his prey. He had to writhe in silence, to beat his
head with his hands, to stifle words of rage and hate and despair. At
last exhausted he resigned himself, he took the boy's hand in his,
remembering that this innocent heart loved him, and fell into a
dreamless sleep.
The charm and the pain of mystery hung about the new life, attracting
him, yet baffling him at every step. He could not fathom or grasp the
people with whom he lived intimately, they seemed beyond him, and yet he
dared ask no questions, dared not go even to Monsignor for explanations.
With the prelate his relations had to take that character which suited
their individual standing. When etiquette allowed him to visit the
rector, Monsignor provided him with the philosophy of the environment,
explained the difficulties, and soothed him with the sympathy of a
generous heart acquainted with his calamities.
"It would have been better to have launched you elsewhere," he said,
"but I knew no other place well enough to get the right people. And then
I have the hope that the necessity for this episode will not continue."
"Death only will end it, Monsignor. Death for one or the other. It
should come soon, for the charm of this life is overpowering me. I shall
never wish to go back if the charm holds me. My uncle, the Senator, is
about to place me in politics."
"I knew he would launch you on that stormy sea," Monsignor answered
reflectively, "but you are not bound to accept the enterprise."
"It will give me distraction, and I need distraction from this
intolerable pain," tapping his breast with a gesture of anguish.
"It will surely counter-irritate. It has entranced men like the Senator,
and your chief; even men like Birmingham. They have the ambition which
runs with great ability. It's a pity that the great prizes are beyond
them."
"Why beyond them?"
"High office is closed to Catholics in this country."
"Here I run up against the mysterious again," he complained.
"Go down into your memory," Monsignor said after a little reflection,
"and recall the first feeling which obscurely stirred your heart when
the ideas of _Irish_ and _Catholic_ were presented to you. See if it was
not distrust, dislike, irritation, or even hate; something different
from the feeling aroused by such ideas as _Turk_ and _atheist_."
"Dislike, irritation, perhaps contempt, with a hint of amusement,"
Arthur replied thoughtfully.
"How came that feeling there touching people of whom you knew next to
nothing?"
"Another mystery."
"Let me tell you. Hatred and contempt of the Irish Catholic has been the
mark of English history for four centuries, and the same feelings have
become a part of English character. It is in the English blood, and
therefore it is in yours. It keeps such men as Sullivan and Birmingham
out of high office, and now it will act against you, strangely enough."
"I understand. Queer things, rum things in this world. I am such a
mystery to myself, however, that I ought not be surprised at outside
mysteries."
"I often regret that I helped you to your present enterprise," said the
priest, "on that very account. Life is harsh enough without adding to
its harshness."
"Never regret that you saved a poor fellow's life, reason, fortune,
family name from shame and blood," Arthur answered hotly. "I told you
the consequences that were coming--you averted them--there's no use to
talk of gratitude--and through you I came to believe in God again, as my
mother taught me. No regret, for God's sake."
His voice broke for a moment, and he walked to the window. Outside he
saw the gray-white walls which would some day be the grand cathedral.
The space about it looked like the studio of a giant artist; piles of
marble scattered here and there gave the half-formed temple the air of a
frowsy, ill-dressed child; and the mass rising to the sky resembled a
cloud that might suddenly melt into the ether. He had seen the great
temples of the world, yet found in this humbler, but still magnificent
structure an element of wonder. From the old world, ancient, rich in
tradition, one expected all things; centaurs might spring from its soil
unnoticed. That the prosaic rocks of Manhattan should heave for this
sublimity stirred the sense of admiring wonder.
"This is your child?" said Arthur abruptly.
"I saw the foundation laid when I was a youth, great boulders of
half-hewn rock, imbedded in cement, to endure with the ages, able to
support whatever man may pile upon them. This building is part of my
life--you may call it my child--for it seems to have sprung from me,
although a greater planned it."
"What a people to attempt this miracle," said Arthur.
"Now you have said it," cried the priest proudly. "The poor people to
whom you now belong, moved by the spirit which raised the great shrines
of Europe, are building out of their poverty and their faith the first
really great temple on this continent. The country waited for them. This
temple will express more than a desire to have protection from bad
weather, and to cover the preacher's pulpit. Here you will have in stone
faith, hope, love, sacrifice. What blessings it will pour out upon the
city, and upon the people who built it. For them it will be a great
glory many centuries perhaps."
"I shall have my share in the work," Arthur said with feeling. "I feel
that I am here to stay, and I shall be a stranger to no work in which my
friends are engaged. I'll not let the mysteries trouble me. I begin to
see what you are, and a little of what you mean. Command me, for no
other in this world to-day has any right to command me--none with a
right like yours, father and friend."
"Thanks and amen, Arthur. Having no claim upon you we shall be all the
more grateful. But in good time. For the present look to yourself,
closely, mind; and draw upon me, upon Louis, upon your mother, they have
the warmest hearts, for sympathy and consolation."
Not long before and Arthur Dillon would have received with the polite
indifference of proud and prosperous youth this generous offer of
sympathy and love; but now it shook him to the center, for he had
learned, at what a fearful price! how precious, how necessary, how rare
is the jewel of human love.