to war. Killing is the most natural emotion, and it is the acme of
reason. No murderer ever feels guilty. He has justified his act by the
highest reasons of self-preservation and self-advancement. We live in
the most rational age the world has ever known. We have reasoned away
all restrictions. There is no such thing as authority any more. In some
western states they have abolished the common law, and in the east
certain classes of society have abolished even the common decencies. It
is unreasonable, they say, to be true to one’s wife, to revere one’s
mother, to obey parents, to pay debts, to stand by a friend, to vote
for civic betterment. All the commandments are unreasonable, including
the greatest, ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’ All that we call moral
and right is unreasonable. And I believe they are unreasonable. Sin is
as justifiable as righteousness--more so, perhaps. I believe that, but
I also believe that ‘the wages of sin is death’; that’s why I am afraid
of reason.”
“Isn’t it reasonable to be good to others?” Gorgas inquired wonderingly.
“I’m afraid not.” Blynn’s lips were compressed; his gaze was fixed on
the farther trees. “Books have been written against it. Goodness is
weakness, they tell us; and so it is. The only right is might, they
tell us; and that is undoubtedly the law of survival. Deceit, the
snare, devouring murder--that is the supreme law of Nature. I believe
that; and yet.... I cannot take my side with evil, even though I
perish.”
Suddenly he laughed. The slight hardness went out of his eyes--that
hidden scourging priest deep within him--and _mon capitaine_ took its
place.
“Heigh-ho!” he whistled. “Don’t let me get started on that sort of
speech. I’m a little mad on that side. I warn you. If ever I get going
again like that, say, ‘Honorificabilitudinitatibus.’... It’s a charm
out of ‘Love’s Labour’s Lost.’ Shakespeare invented it.”
“I’ll never say it.”
“Say ‘Honorificabilitudinitatibus,’ and keep your fingers crossed.”
“I won’t. That would be _most_ unreasonable. I want to hear more.”
But he did not go on. “Mother had a horse once who got into the oats,”
she offered in illustration. “He foundered. I suppose he thought eating
oats was reasonable enough.”
“Well, is it not?” Blynn looked at her. “There are things I want to
do that are as reasonable as that. I have gone over every point of
the argument and I can’t find a flaw in the reasoning. Every decent
instinct I have says, Go ahead. But the unwritten code of my race, the
summed up wisdom that we call custom, says, ‘No. Go ahead and you will
repent in unforeseen miseries.’... ‘There is a way that _seemeth_ right
unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.’... So I obey.
There are those who scoff at the candles on the altar, who grow pert at
the expense of old mysterious faiths, who would jostle cheek and jowl
with Deity. I can quite understand them; but I would hesitate to follow
them in very deed.... Did I hear you say ‘Honorificabilitudinitatibus’?”
“No.”
“What are you puzzling over?”
“I was wondering what all this has to do with old Bong-jour. I know
it means I’ll have to go back and stand it; but it isn’t--” she
laughed--“it isn’t reasonable.”
“No; it isn’t,” he nodded, “and that’s the very reason you should go
back. The wisdom that is older than either you or I, Gorgas, says that
youth must submit; must endure; must bow to other wills. ‘A boy’s
will’--and a girl’s will--‘is the wind’s will.’ The way toward strength
and mastery is first to submit. In some respects you should be thankful
that the way is hard. The more foolish your school exactions are, the
wiser you will become in discovering them. Already you have grown
enormously, due to the Warren School. It has brought out your wits to
match their stupidity. Remember, I don’t say to submit ignorantly.
There’s no growth in that. Give yourself up to the law; but keep your
judgment ever on the alert. Extract every ounce of knowledge from your
serfdom; but yourself be free. The essence of freedom is not rebellion,
but intelligent surrender.”
The sun began to drop down behind Chestnut Hill. A pleasant crispness
came into the October afternoon.
“It’s time to go back,” Blynn arose. “I’m afraid the ‘spoiled priest’
has bored you.”
“I like him.”
“He likes you; you are a splendid communicant. You never interrupt the
service.”
“Service on the tennis-courts!” she laughed as they jogged down the
hill together. “But you won your service,” she smiled up at him.
“Good girl!” he spoke quietly, a deep, congratulatory tone that gave
her a joyous surge of delight. Troubles vanished. Her mind became
clean-swept as if by magic; pure, sterilized of rebellious miseries.
It was mental healing. “Good girl! I’ve won my service; yes; and I’m
glad. But according to the rules it’s your turn to serve now. I’ll be
watching every gain you make. It’s a great fight, the fight against
oneself. Glorious! Don’t give in an inch!”
He was of only fair height, a spare youngish sort of chap; she was tall
for fourteen; so they might have been taken at that darkened hour for a
pair of loitering swains.
“Where will you be waiting?” Gorgas asked.
“From a near distance,” he answered.
“Why are you so stingy with your talks?” She darted the question with
characteristic abruptness. “This is the first real good one we’ve had
since ‘Andrea.’”
A group of friendly neighbors passed. The frank smiles on their faces
showed that they appreciated the joke of twenty-four and fourteen
promenading together. But it struck Blynn like a slap in the face. He
glared and raised his hat energetically.
“I must not hover about you,” he spoke almost sharply. “The neighbors
would be talking in no time.”
“Oh, they began that long ago,” she spoke without the least concern.
“What do I care what people say! Don’t stalk like that. I can’t keep up
with you.”
“Well, I do!”
“Do what?”
“Care what people say!” he was terribly in earnest. “I care mightily.
You can’t ignore the mass of unseen thoughts and opinions about you.
It’s a force like the sea that can rise and swallow you. Don’t set your
own opinions up and ignore all that,” he waved his hand over Mount
Airy. “You will be like a canoe in mid-ocean. ‘You don’t care what
people say!’ Be careful. Sometimes the voice of the race is speaking.
And the race is older and wiser than any single person in it. Buried
instincts of the race come to the top, and, behold, you have ‘what
people say.’ The voice of the people is sometimes the voice of the
devil; and sometimes it is the voice of God.”
“What _was_ that word I was to say--Honorifica--what?”
“‘Honorificabilitudinitatibus!’” he laughed heartily, like a good
sportsman.
“Well, honorifica--whatever it is!” she said firmly. “What you said
this afternoon may have been all right; but this is just stuff and
nonsense. Do you think I’d care what anybody in Mount Airy said about
me? They’re a pack of blithering fools.”
“Well, perhaps you’re right,” he said cheerfully as he bade her goodby
at the gate. “‘Honorificabilitudinitatibus’ is a great charm. It always
brings me to my senses! Goodby, Gorgas.”
“Goodby,” she repeated, and turned slowly up the walk. To herself she
said, “The fools! The fools!” The memory of the smirking faces that
passed them was full upon her. “The fools! Now they’ve scared him off;
just when things were going nice!”
BOOK TWO
The Hidden River
“I wish you wouldn’t squeeze so,” said the Dormouse, who was sitting
next to her. “I can hardly breathe.”
“I can’t help it,” said Alice very meekly. “I’m growing.”
XI
SIXTEEN
Gorgas was now fastened up to a schedule--her life became organized.
Without a word she gave up her open fight against the unreasonableness
of the traditional school customs; accepted the absurdities, and
performed the mechanical tasks as if they were really worth doing;
and she found, after a while, that, once the ritual was learned, the
service was not very exacting either in brain or time.
The need for tutoring being eliminated, the regular weekly dinners at
Levering’s gradually broke off. Readings in literature were tried once
or twice with a small group, but they developed into rather tame and
stilted affairs, and were dropped.
The winter of ’88 and ’89 drifted by before anyone was ready for it
to go. The next year Blynn spent in Germany, where all good scholars
went in those days, and during the winter that followed his return, the
intimate connection with the Leverings seemed almost ready to break off
naturally.
Several times Blynn and Gorgas took the afternoon to themselves and
read poetry and talked. There was nothing tame nor stilted about these
literary exercises; rather, they were warm with the glow of sincere
feeling; but they never achieved the perfect freedom of the earlier
meetings. Allen Blynn seemed to be growing aloof and pedagogic, and
Gorgas was enveloped for good in the protective reserve of the young
woman.
Leopold dropped in upon the Leverings with a semblance of regularity.
In a crowd he was smilingly silent; but as an intimate guest he came
out and talked. The latest news of the biological sciences--all the new
mysteries and dramatic new discoveries--he put before them simply and
clearly, although he made no concessions to Gorgas’ youth. She thrilled
with gratitude because he never once spoke to her in a patronizing way
or seemed to consider for one moment that she could not comprehend
every discussion; and her acquisitive young soul expanded.
And Ned Morris went on playing tennis with Gorgas until a place had to
be set for him regularly at the Levering luncheons and dinners, and on
the days of five a. m. practice games, at breakfast, too.
She was sixteen in September--September 10, 1891--and gave a
“party”--one of those affairs where everything is planned seriously,
as if for excited children--a cake with candles, ice cream in animal
moulds, snap bonbons, and guests in semi-masquerade--but where all the
so-called children smile satirically and go through the ceremonies in
exaggerated earnest. It is really a farewell to childhood.
Kate wrote Blynn his invitation. “Gorgas,” she said, “insists upon
celebrating her sixteenth anniversary with due ceremonies of cake and
candle and partner. At her suggestion and with the approval of myself
I herewith invite you to come and be my partner. Take care before
accepting. I have no idea of the duties of partners. Perhaps you may
have to bob for apples in tubs; or you may have to play ‘Copenhagen’
and kiss the little girls. It will be outlandish and _non compos_ and
characteristic of the Levering Liberty Hall--that you may be assured.
I fancy that we old folks will look on, (Gracious! I am twenty-five.
O Petruchio, why stayest thou so long in Verona!) while the children
cavort.
“The ladies will masquerade mildly. I shall wear my mother’s evening
gown of 1861; so you must perforce keep a respectable distance.”
To the great satisfaction of everyone--they all were busy folks and had
had a slight chill at the suggestion of children’s party--the guests
were simply the old dinner group with the addition of Bea Wilcox.
Diccon and Davis were wringing each other’s hands as Blynn entered;
Leopold was gaily chatting with Gorgas in French; and Mary Weston and
Betty Sommers were crowding around Ed Morris, shaking both hands at
once.
“What has Ed been up to now?” inquired Blynn. “Graduated or something?”
Everyone laughed; Blynn looked so eager and so innocent of the world’s
doings.
“Ed’s ’89,” Leopold reminded Blynn.
“You ought to know,” chirped Davis, “your marks probably pulled him
through.”
Mary Weston took Blynn by the lapels. “Allen Blynn, don’t you really
and honestly read the newspapers? Ed Morris has done gone and won the
tennis singles championship of Philadelphia county.”
“By the Great Horn Spoon, boy!” Blynn gripped his hand. “I’m mighty
glad to know that. Why, I did see an account of some Morris taking
the trophy,” he defended himself, “but I didn’t connect you with the
business. Why, man, I’d have been there to see you do it.”
“And you didn’t hear about the exhibition mixed doubles, either,” Bea
tugged at his other lapel.
“Bless us all!” cried Allen, “don’t tell me you have taken in
Montgomery and Lancaster counties, too?”
“It was only an exhibition, Bea,” Gorgas called out from across the
room, “the others didn’t half try.”
“Hush, child,” retorted Bea, “when yo’ mammy’s talkin’! The fact
is--the latest news is--that Gorgas Levering and Edwin Morris gave a
jim-crickety exhibition against the champion ‘mixers’ of the East and--”
“Bless us again!” exclaimed Allen, “don’t tell me that they beat ’em;
eh?”
“Yes!” said Bea, “they beat ’em.”
Chorus of protests followed; a babel of correction. Blynn stopped his
ears, until Gorgas could be heard.
“No, Mr. Blynn,” she said, “we lost two sets of 10-8 each. We were
nearly fagged, weren’t we, Ed? And they were fresh as daisies. They
didn’t try; and Ed did all the work. What did you fib for, Bea, and
drop us down so hard?”
“I repeat,” said Bea solemnly, “_They_ beat _’em_. Who’s to dispute
that? The professor of English here asked, ‘Did _they_ beat _’em_,’ and
I just wanted him to take more care and pains with his English and not
go sp-pilling his p-pronouns p-promiscuously all over the p-place. So,
I just said, ‘Yes; _they_ did beat _’em_.’ And so they did.”
“Aw! What’s pronouns between friends?” queried Diccon, the editor.
“Here the girls get all togged out in their mothers’ clothes, and we’re
talking ‘newspaper.’” That brought a fresh outburst, mainly an attack
on Diccon.
“Sport’s ‘newspaper,’” he explained laconically. “I make ’em--’em here
stands for both sports and newspaper. What’s in the newspaper is sport;
the rest don’t happen. Blynn didn’t know anything about Morris because
he forgets to read the newspapers--and I ran Ed in on the first page,
too. Ah!” he sighed, “What is fame?”
At that moment Kate came slowly into the room and courtesied. She wore
the small hoops of a young lady of ’61, a dainty costume, when it is
not exaggerated; and some of the charm of that sedate attire found its
way by contagion into the personality of the wearer. Gentleness and
sweetness were her prevailing charms that evening.
Blynn watched her with open interest; an occupation which she did not
miss, even when her back was toward him; but he was only thinking how
that crinoline period had been much maligned, and was fancying that her
mother must have been just such a shy, timorous creature a quarter of a
century ago.
Mary and Betty had discovered ill-mated parts of gowns of the early
’80’s--skin-tight sleeves, lace shawl and enormous bustles. Bea Wilcox
wore a genuine child’s dress, her younger sister’s, and, with her
height, looked as scandalous as she intended.
Later, on the lantern-lighted porch, Blynn was aware of Gorgas standing
beside him holding out a hand and asking:
“Weren’t you ever coming over to greet me and wish me congratulations?”
“By the Great Horn Spoon!” he ejaculated, looking her over open-eyed.
“What’s happened to you?”
“I’ve growed up, M’sieu’.” Something had certainly happened to her. Her
masquerade consisted simply of the gown her sister Keyser would have
worn that evening if there had been no disguising. Besides, she had
coiled her hair.
“This beats the tennis-court all hollow,” he murmured, patently
dumbfounded by the change. “_Retro, Sathanas!_ Get thee behind me, silk
and satin!”
“Do you like it?” she asked; but staring admiration glowed from him.
“_Ein tousand ein hundred ein und zwanzig!_” he swore à la Bardek.
“It’s uncanny, eerie, spooky!”
“I did it all for you,” she confided frankly. “Hid the--uh--
underpinnings.”
“But good Scotland, girl!” he replied. “That’s not the way to please
me! Oh, it’s glorious. Goodness! You are stunning! But you always upset
me when you--uh--go without--uh--underpinnings, you know. Disconcerts
me.” His tone was that of the older-man-joking-with-little-girl; but
his eyes shone with admiration. “Makes me think I ought to treat you
the way--eh--I ought to be ashamed of myself for wanting to. If you’d
only giggle or simper--things you never do, thank Peter!--it would give
me the cue, occasionally.”
“I see you are impressed,” she smiled and tapped him on the arm.
“That’s what I did it for--just that.... You’ve got the wrong idea
about fifteen and sixteen. Older persons always do. Fifteen and sixteen
don’t feel at all childlike, I can tell you. I’ll never be any older
than I am now. My mind’s grown up--”
“‘I do not wear motley in my brain, madonna,’” he quoted the wise
clown, Feste.
“That’s just it,” comprehending; “and it’s insufferable to dress us the
way they do--skirts that are neither long nor short, hair hanging or
half brought up with ribbons. And,” she whispered, “you get positively
ashamed of your--underpinnings. I’ve let out the hem of some of my
skirts myself--on the quiet. You don’t know how comfortable and at home
I feel in this.” She took several easy steps forward and back. “But
mother won’t listen to me. I’d be grown up from now on if she’d let
me.”
Others of the party were swarming out on the porch. Kate was coming
forward to claim her partner.
“Listen, _mon capitaine_,” Gorgas spoke hurriedly. “I want to have a
powwow with you. Stay a few moments after the others are gone; will
you?”
He agreed, hardly comprehending what she had said. Her eyes were
searching him as of old and her hand was ever so lightly touching his
arm. All convention to the contrary, she was a woman, no doubt; but it
was the delightful childlike quality about her that really thrilled
him. He was thinking, now that she looked so stately and poised, how,
after all, it was as a child that she appealed to him. A strong,
painful desire swept him to have just such a brood of his own about
him. His impulses were domestic and parental, and he was twenty-six and
childless.
Kate was talking to him and he was answering with one-half of his mind.
The other half was following Gorgas as she swept across the porch and
onto the lawn to claim her partner, Ed Morris. Morris was offering an
arm grotesquely in tribute to her long skirts. They marched off gaily.
That’s the way she would go, he tried to assure himself. Some chap of
her own generation would take her away, and then she would be lost. It
was the fate of parents to lose their offspring. Real fathers, however,
had rights and claims. They could put their arms about their daughters,
pat their cheeks and listen to their prattle, no matter who else owned
them; and there would be no horrid suspicions about the matter. As
he heard the ripples of laughter that came from their confidential
talks out on the lawn, he had a little pang of regret. “_Mon père_,”
he remembered how she had once dubbed him. “_Mon père_,” he nodded to
himself, “is about to lose his _enfant_; and it isn’t at all a pleasant
sensation.... It’s like pups,” he grinned. “There’s no use trying to
own them. You get your affection all tied up and then they die and you
have to begin all over with a new lot. The thing to do is to give ’em
away quick and forget ’em.”
XII
MIXED RENDEZVOUS
Everywhere at the “party” Morris and Gorgas were naturally together.
They made such a perfect tennis team that each got to know
instinctively what the other was thinking. Scraps of private pass-words
and codes flashed back and forth, references to games and experiences
they had in common. He was always being called upon to work at setting
up chairs or untying ribbons or fastening up a fallen lantern.
“Edwin,” she would turn. “Take a look at my back hair, will you? Isn’t
that hair-pin tumbling out?”
He would inspect critically and put the offending member into shape,
like a familiar brother.
“Don’t forget the bonbons,” she would call after him, as he hurried
about preparing things, like one of the family. “They’re where you put
them--on the top shelf in the pantry, you know.”
At supper the cake was cut and each candle blown out with a rhymed
wish. Gorgas had arranged the seating with Blynn on one side and Morris
on the other. With Morris she squabbled playfully like a child, but to
Blynn she turned an impish womanly mien.
“Take your elbows off the table, Eddie,” she pretended to give little
sisterly slaps. “Where are your company manners?”
To Blynn she would turn the next minute, and mimic a lady dining out.
“The plans for this winter’s opera are stupid; don’t you think? Nothing
but Wahgner--we’re getting our share of Wahgner--and the old Fausts and
Carmens and Trovatores. That new opera of Puccini is already stale in
Vienna, and we haven’t heard even excerpts in the orchestra. It’s like
a stage given up to continuous Uncle Tom’s Cabins.”
Another time she came at him with the intonation of a gushing old lady.
“How _int_’r’sting!” she beamed suddenly at one of his remarks about
the Academy exhibition, a topic she had forced on him. “_Have_ you seen
the Cyclor_ah_ma of Gettysburg? They say it is _re_-ally _thrill_-ling.
_Quite_ the illusion of distance, you know. One _ought_ to go.”
For some unexplainable reason Blynn’s humor failed him. He tried
to talk with her on the strange themes she irrelevantly suggested,
inwardly registering his protest at the changes of personality in
people. Some of his best college chums had grown into impossible
young-old men and the liveliest girls of his teens frequently developed
into stupid matrons. Gorgas, he conjectured gloomily, was losing all
her naturalness; her individual mind was being moulded in the common
cast.
He turned his attention to Kate. She had not changed, save in so far as
her delicate silk attire gave her a temporary flavor of blue china and
tea roses.
“What is the good news out of Verona?” he inquired.
“Petruchio has not yet arrived,” she answered promptly.
“Ah! You are not shrewish enough. Katharina had a reputation for
ugliness of temper.”
“Ask Gorgas,” she smiled. “She and I have some fearful fracases
sometimes--not often, though.” She leaned back to get a good view of
her sister. “Doesn’t she look lovely, tonight! It is so droll to see
her in my gown. I hope I look as well in it. The child is growing up
fast. Ah, me! She’s my age-warner. I shall be jealous of her soon.”
“I say, Allen,” Diccon called, “going to take that professorship at
Holden?”
“Why, how under heaven did you know about that?” asked the astonished
Blynn.
“Newspaper,” said Diccon. “We know everything; before it happens, too.
Want me to run it in, front-page display?” he grinned.
“Bless my soul! Please don’t do anything like that, Diccon. It’s a
small matter--big for me, of course--but of no public interest.”
A general chorus forced him to a more public explanation. Holden
College had offered him the chair held by his old professor of English.
It meant more money--an unimportant matter; but, it meant the head of
things, even though they were small things, and the chance to work
under his own lead. He had not decided, although as it stood now he
believed he would not go. The big university had its own attraction;
one might meet an intolerable narrowness in a small place; and there
were his “children,” about whom he felt more or less responsibility. To
be sure, they could be taken care of.
“Go!” said Diccon with almost a snap. “Get out of this. You’re just
a trailer here. Never get anything in your home town. Go away. Be a
mystery. They’ll want you back some day, when others find out you’re
worth wanting. Band waiting for you, too. My advice is to clear out.
That’s what I ought to’ve done--long ago.”
The company fell to a discussion of why prophets and professors were
honored in all cities save their own. Under cover of the general talk,
Gorgas tapped Allen on the sleeve, her characteristic way of getting
his attention, and spoke in her proper rôle, as old-time “pal.”
“Does this mean something for you, _mon capitaine_?”
“I suppose it does,” he replied. “Somehow I don’t seem to have any
judgment in my own affairs. Prudence tells me to go; it _is_ an
opportunity; but I have almost made up my mind to plod along where I
am.”
“Just what do you mean by opportunity?” she asked.
He explained. As he talked, the really flattering offer began to
have some meaning for him. It seemed now as if he had been careless
in letting the letter from the President go for three or four days
without so much as a reply. But that’s the way he had always neglected
his personal advancement.
“I don’t know whether to let you go or not,” Gorgas speculated. “Of
course, you would be down Thanksgiving and Christmas and Easter and
vacations?”
“Sure to.”
“You might just as well go, for all I have seen of you lately,” she
added. “Why did you suddenly give me up?”