I
I never knew him, myself. That is, in the ordinary way of acquaintance.
It was not that I avoided him. It was, rather, that I was young,
and shyer than I might have admitted, and too self-conscious on the
point of _quid pro quo_. Time has happily made me less squeamish
about standing to people in that relation which is not rare in this
complicated world, of finding them more interesting than they do me.
Even then, though, making people out was for me the chief business of
life. Whereas he seemed to live in a world by himself. At any rate he
was far more fiercely individual than I, who am Jesuit enough to get
on with anybody. Another point, however, was that I went to Marshbury
those three times only, for short periods and at long intervals. The
wonder was that he had made for me so complete a picture as he did. But
I think I never saw anyone else so well through the eyes of others.
That is probably why I have never been back. There was something final
about that slab of grey granite.
Mary Bennett was my principal source of information. Everyone in the
village had his quota to contribute, for that matter. But as Mary
was Marvin’s “help,” and as I boarded with Mary’s mother, I enjoyed
exceptional opportunities. Yet now that I say it, I realise how
indirectly it is true--how little Mary ever told me in so many words.
She was a solid young person of seventeen when I first knew her, really
not bad to look at, and much better than gold, but of a--what shall I
call it? Indeed, I myself was taken in at first. I used to wonder how
much help the girl could be. I was slower then to see how factitious
a part speech plays in the economy of life. However, when I heard of
the strange being to whom Mary ministered, I prepared to be bored. I
expected the conventional ogre of the country village.
How he got that way--to dip into the dictionary of the place--nobody
knew. He was born and brought up in the village, like his fathers
before him for two hundred years. Moreover most of them had been
divines, as the phrase pleasantly goes, and had passed down the
thunders of Sinai from one quaking generation to the next. He certainly
had enjoyed every advantage. But as for Marvin, he would none of
them. It was an insoluble mystery. Mary was the first to suggest that
a circumstance of his early youth might be connected with it--and a
stepmother. I rather balked at that. I have my own ideas concerning
stepmothers. But when I heard about this one--! Marvin had come home
from school one afternoon when he was fourteen or so, it seemed, and
to his astonishment had found the house empty. The only thing in it
was his little trunk, neatly packed and corded, standing near the door.
There was also a note, on the trunk. Reminding him that he was now a
man and had a man’s part to play in the world, this missive assured
him that whom the Lord loved he chastened, urged him to gird up his
loins accordingly, and concluded by announcing that, for reasons too
sad and too numerous to mention, the time had come for stepmother and
stepson to part. That, opined Mary, was in itself sufficient to harden
a lad’s heart--particularly in view of certain adventures which were
known to have succeeded the abandonment. Mrs. Bennett, however, did
not countenance her daughter’s weakness. “Sary Marvin,” contended that
matron, “certainly don’ her share--pore onfort’nit critter--toward
bringin’ up Matthew’s boy.” And the way he had got on in the world
ought not only to have vindicated the justice of his stepmother’s
confidence in him, but to have convinced him beyond all shadow of doubt
that the Lord did provide.
Be that as it might, Matthew’s boy was certainly provided for. It was
but another discredit, however, in the eyes of his contemporaries.
To live without toil was as open an invitation to Satan as it was an
unseemly example to the community. And, beyond a mere exhibition of
sinful pride, it was positively a manner of bearing false witness. For
there were many and many that had more than he, and were not above
earning their daily bread. To be sure, there was no infallible means
of knowing just how much Matthew’s boy had. He who was the opposite of
his neighbours in so many respects perversely robbed the local bank of
a considerable business, and kept his money in Boston--where it made no
difference to anybody. And his cheques were so irregular, and to such
varying amounts, that the village financiers had never made up their
minds whether Henry Marvin had ten thousand dollars or ten million.
But there were ways, I learned, by which you could tell. For instance,
Henry, he didn’t take the newspapers and magazines. And everybody that
was half-way respectable subscribed to the _Marshbury Messenger_. Henry
didn’t seem to care much about reading, except a few musty old things
of his own that were better left unread, most likely. Nor did he avail
himself of the other means of culture which were open to the village.
He didn’t even patronise the lecture course. Such attractions as they
had, too--Dr. Waterman, the great Baptist minister from York State, who
lectured on “Oceans of Pearls,” so beautifully that you’d never know he
was a Baptist; and the Orpheus Male Quartette; and the Ladies’ Band,
from Germany; and all sorts of things! Altogether Henry didn’t spend
much that anybody could see, and he probably had less then he’d like to
make out, with that proud way of his of doing nothing. And nobody knew,
hinted my hostess darkly, how he came by what he had, either.
I am a scandalous gossip myself, and always encourage other people
in it. If one may put it without circumlocution, there are few more
precious sources of copy. I must say, however, that the Bennetts did
not at first profoundly interest me with their revelations. I did not
even experience any unusual sensation when I was told of Marvin’s
prime enormity, that he did not go to church. It was perhaps that in
a slightly wider orbit I had happened to hear of such cases before.
I had discovered that it by no means argues an original spirit to
discontinue that for which one has no inclination. And the mere doing
or not doing what everybody else does will rarely suffice to portray a
man. The traits of life lie deeper than that. The only thing about it
that struck me was that Mrs. Bennett called Marvin, in consequence of
his delinquencies, “a perfect pagan.” And I put it down in my notebook
as another instance of the common use in New England of the most
unexpected words.
But I did prick up my ears at last. It was one day when I expressed
wonder--a purely conversational wonder, let me confess in passing--that
Marvin should continue to live in a community with which he no longer
had any tie of blood or sympathy. Mrs. Bennett thereupon informed me
that Mary had more than once asked him that very question--so far as I
could make out, she enjoyed strangely unconscious terms of familiarity
with him--and that he always told her it was because of the brook. He
lived, it seemed, on the farm of his fathers, down near the Poorhouse;
and a brook ran through the place, inconveniently cutting off a piece
of the orchard just behind the house. The noise of it would drive you
silly, said Mrs. Bennett--especially in the spring. It never could make
too much noise for Marvin, though. He always made out that there was
some girl in it, singing to him.
That brook, and that singing girl, caught me! The rest of it might
have belonged to any retiring old gentleman who was afraid of or bored
by his neighbours--not that Marvin was so old, though, I came to find
out. But this was of a distinguishing quality. And it started me off
on trails of curiosity which rather indecently made up for my previous
indifference. I would have given a good deal to meet the man. There was
no one, however, through whom the thing could be brought about in the
ordinary way of the world, and to approach him directly was more than
I dared. It was not merely that he was older than I. He suddenly gave
me an impression of being more genuine; and I was ashamed to go to him
with no better excuse than a summer boarder’s inquisitiveness. So I had
to content myself with getting at him through other people’s versions.
It grew into quite a little game just to make out the deviation of
each particular compass, and then to chart the probable course. In
the general opinion, I quickly found, Marvin was mad. It was all
that saved him from open persecution. Could a person be regarded as
responsible who insisted that he heard voices in running water, and
who told the minister to his face that there was more religion in an
apple orchard than in a church? And there were things queerer still,
intimated Mrs. Bennett. Mary could tell about them.
What Mary could tell, what Mary did tell, most of all what Mary did
not tell, would make a story by itself! It was such a case of the
unconscious diversity between character and opinions. I gathered that
among the reasons why the girl was allowed to serve one so manifestly
in league with evil was the hope that her influence might be edifying.
Certainly it was for me, during the daily catechisms which she
underwent at the hands of her family. These, I was informed in private,
were intended to lay bare any incipient work of contamination. Marvin’s
money was a welcome addition to the family exchequer, but of course
it could not be accepted if the girl were coming to any harm. There
was special danger, said Mrs. Bennett, that Mary might contract habits
of intemperance. Marvin himself drank, and there was no telling but
what he would attempt as well the corruption of his handmaid. He was
as odd about his drinking as he was about everything else, it seemed.
A particular upon which my informant dwelt was that Marvin, instead
of patronising the drug-store like those who had legitimate uses for
strong waters, obtained his supply from Boston, as he did his money.
But there was something odder still. The man had actually set up a
regular bar in his house, in a small entry between the sitting-room and
dining-room. He kept it stocked with liquids of strange colours, and he
had counters which he could let down across the doorways.
“An’ he’ll be in the settin’-room,” went on Mrs. Bennett, “an’ he’ll
suddenly get up an’ say, ‘Good-evenin’, Jack; can you fix me up a
nice dry Martini?’--or somethin’ or other like that. Mary’s heard him
lots o’ times. He don’t mind her bein’ ’round. An’ then he’ll walk
around outside, through the hall, into the dinin’-room, an’ so to the
other door of the entry. An’ he’ll say, same as if he was answerin’
himself, ‘Sure, Cap! I guess we can to-night.’ An’ then he’ll pour out
his liquor, an’ put it down on the counter, an’ walk around outside
to the settin’-room again. An’ then he’ll take up the stuff he left
on the counter, and taste it, an’ say, ‘That’s a good one you made me
to-night, Jack,’ an’ he’ll drink it up just as if he was in company. He
never seems to get real drunk, though, so far as anybody can make out.
An’ he never tries to make Mary take any. He just tells her he’d agree
to do all the drinkin’ if she’d only do the mixin’ for him, an’ that
she’d save him a power o’ steps if she’d only help him play his game.
“She’s don’ her best to stop it, but it ain’t no use. She just stood
up to him one day an’ quoted Scriptur’. _Wine is a mocker_, she said;
_strong drink is ragin’_, said she, _an’ whosoever is deceived thereby
is not wise_. An’ there’s a whole lot more in Proverbs about they that
tarry long at the wine, an’ look upon it when it is red, an’ what not.
But Henry, he took her right up. ‘Yes,’ he pops out, ‘an’ what else
does it say? _Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and
wine unto those that be of heavy hearts. Let him drink, and forget his
poverty, and remember his misery no more!_’ Did you ever hear the likes
of that?”