"PEACE, PEACE, AND THERE IS NO PEACE"'
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.