The sun was setting by the time Charley was ready to leave his office.
Never in his life had he stayed so late in “the halls of industry,” as
he flippantly called his place of business. The few cases he had won so
brilliantly since the beginning of his career, he had studied at night
in his luxurious bedroom in the white brick house among the maples on
the hill. In every case, as at the trial of Joseph Nadeau, the man who
murdered the timber-merchant, the first prejudice of judge and jury had
given way slowly before the deep-seeing mind, which had as rare a power
of analysis as for generalisation, and reduced masses of evidence to
phrases; and verdicts had been given against all personal prejudice--to
be followed outside the court by the old prejudice, the old look askance
at the man called Beauty Steele.
To him it had made no difference at any time. He cared for neither
praise nor blame. In his actions a materialist, in his mind he was a
watcher of life, a baffled inquirer whose refuge was irony, and whose
singular habits had in five years become a personal insult to the
standards polite society and Puritan morality had set up. Perhaps the
insult had been intended, for irregularities were committed with an
insolent disdain for appearances. He did nothing secretly; his page
of life was for him who cared to read. He played cards, he talked
agnosticism, he went on shooting expeditions which became orgies, he
drank openly in saloons, he whose forefathers had been gentlemen of
King George, and who sacrificed all in the great American revolution for
honour and loyalty--statesmen, writers, politicians, from whom he had
direct inheritance, through stirring, strengthening forces, in the
building up of laws and civilisation in a new land. Why he chose to be
what he was--if he did choose--he alone could answer. His personality
had impressed itself upon his world, first by its idiosyncrasies and
afterwards by its enigmatical excesses.
What was he thinking of as he laid the papers away in the tin box in a
drawer, locked it, and put the key in his pocket? He had found to the
smallest detail Billy’s iniquity, and he was now ready to shoulder the
responsibility, to save the man, who, he knew, was scarce worth the
saving. But Kathleen--there was what gave him pause. As he turned to the
window and looked out over the square he shuddered. He thought of the
exchange of documents he had made with her that day, and he had a sense
of satisfaction. This defalcation of Billy’s would cripple him, for
money had flown these last few years. He had had heavy losses, and he
had dug deep into his capital. Down past the square ran a cool avenue of
beeches to the water, and he could see his yacht at anchor. On the other
side of the water, far down the shore, was a house which had been begun
as a summer cottage, and had ended in being a mansion. A few Moorish
pillars, brought from Algiers for the decoration of the entrance,
had necessitated the raising of the roof, and then all had to be in
proportion, and the cottage became like an appanage to a palace. So
it had gone, and he had cared so little about it all, and for the
consequences. He had this day secured Kathleen from absolute poverty, no
matter what happened, and that had its comfort. His eyes wandered among
the trees. He could see the yellow feathers of the oriole and catch the
note of the whippoorwill, and from the great church near the voices of
the choir came over. He could hear the words “Lord, now lettest thou thy
servant depart in peace, according to thy word.”
Depart in peace--how much peace was there in the world? Who had it? The
remembrance of what Kathleen said to him at the door--“I suppose I ought
to kiss you”--came to him, was like a refrain in his ears.
“Peace is the penalty of silence and inaction,” he said to himself
meditatively. “Where there is action there is no peace. If the brain and
body fatten, then there is peace. Kathleen and I have lived at peace, I
suppose. I never said a word to her that mightn’t be put down in large
type and pasted on my tombstone, and she never said a word to me--till
to-day--that wasn’t like a water-colour picture. Not till to-day, in a
moment’s strife and trouble, did I ever get near her. And we’ve lived
in peace. Peace? Where is the right kind of peace? Over there is old
Sainton. He married a rich woman, he has had the platter of plenty
before him always, he wears ribbons and such like baubles given by the
Queen, but his son had to flee the country. There’s Herring. He doesn’t
sleep because his daughter is going to marry an Italian count. There’s
Latouche. His place in the cabinet is begotten in corruption, in the
hotbed of faction war. There’s Kenealy. His wife has led him a dance
of deep damnation. There’s the lot of them--every one, not an ounce of
peace among them, except with old Casson, who weighs eighteen stone,
lives like a pig, grows stuffier in mind and body every day, and drinks
half a bottle of whiskey every night. There’s no one else--yes, there
is!”
He was looking at a small black-robed figure with clean-shaven face,
white hair, and shovel-hat, who passed slowly along the wooden walk
beneath, with meditative content in his face.
“There’s peace,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve known Father Hallon
for twenty-five years, and no man ever worked so hard, ever saw more
trouble, ever shared other people’s bad luck mere than he; ever took the
bit in his teeth, when it was a matter of duty, stronger than he;
and yet there’s peace; he has it; a peace that passes all
understanding--mine anyhow. I’ve never had a minute’s real peace. The
World, or Nature, or God, or It, whatever the name is, owes me peace.
And how is It to give it? Why, by answering my questions. Now it’s
a curious thing that the only person I ever met who could answer any
questions of mine--answer them in the way that satisfies--is Suzon. She
works things down to phrases. She has wisdom in the raw, and a real grip
on life, and yet all the men she has known have been river-drivers and
farmers, and a few men from town who mistook the sort of Suzon she is.
Virtuous and straight, she’s a born child of Aphrodite too--by nature.
She was made for love. A thousand years ago she would have had a
thousand loves! And she thinks the world is a magnificent place, and she
loves it, and wallows--fairly wallows--in content. Now which is right:
Suzon or Father Hallon--Aphrodite or the Nazarene? Which is peace--as
the bird and the beast of the field get it--the fallow futile content,
or--”
He suddenly stopped, hiccoughed, then hurriedly drawing paper before
him, he sat down. For an hour he wrote. It grew darker. He pushed the
table nearer the window, and the singing of the choir in the church
came in upon him as his pen seemed to etch words into the paper, firm,
eccentric, meaning. What he wrote that evening has been preserved, and
the yellow sheets lie loosely in a black despatch-box which contains the
few records Charley Steele left behind him. What he wrote that night was
the note of his mind, the key to all those strange events through which
he began to move two hours after the lines were written:
Over thy face is a veil of white sea-mist,
Only thine eyes shine like stars; bless or blight me,
I will hold close to the leash at thy wrist,
O Aphrodite!
Thou in the East and I here in the West,
Under our newer skies purple and pleasant:
Who shall decide which is better--attest,
Saga or peasant?
Thou with Serapis, Osiris, and Isis,
I with Jehovah, in vapours and shadows;
Thou with the gods’ joy-enhancing devices,
Sweet-smelling meadows!
What is there given us?--Food and some raiment,
Toiling to reach to some Patmian haven,
Giving up all for uncertain repayment,
Feeding the raven!
Striving to peer through the infinite azure,
Alternate turning to earthward and falling,
Measuring life with Damastian measure,
Finite, appalling.
What does it matter! They passed who with Homer
Poured out the wine at the feet of their idols:
Passing, what found they? To-come a misnomer,
It and their idols?
Sacristan, acolyte, player, or preacher,
Each to his office, but who holds the key?
Death, only Death--thou, the ultimate teacher
Wilt show it to me.
And when the forts and the barriers fall,
Shall we then find One the true, the almighty,
Wisely to speak with the worst of us all--
Ah, Aphrodite!
Waiting, I turn from the futile, the human,
Gone is the life of me, laughing with youth
Steals to learn all in the face of a woman,
Mendicant Truth!
Rising with a bitter laugh, and murmuring the last lines, he thrust the
papers into a drawer, locked it, and going quickly from the room, he
went down-stairs. His horse and cart were waiting for him, and he got
in.
The groom looked at him inquiringly. “The Cote Dorion!” he said, and
they sped away through the night.