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Viviette (Ainslee's serial)/Part 2

IVIETTE, having repaired the disorder caused by her tears, went down to tea. Mrs. Ware, Katherine, and a curate deliberately calling or taking shelter from the rain, were in the drawing room. Austin, to his mother's mild astonishment, had sent down a message to the effect that he was busy. On ordinary occasions Viviette would have flirted monstrously with the clerical youth and sent him away undecided whether to offer to share his lodgings and hundred pounds a year with her, or to turn Catholic and become a monk. But now she had no mind to flirtation. She left him to the undisturbing wiles of Mrs. Ware, and petted and surreptitiously fed Dick's Irish terrier, whose brown eyes looked pathetic inquiry as to his master's whereabouts. She was sobered by the uncomprehended scene in the armory—sobered by Dick's violence and by Austin's final coldness. A choice had been put before her in deadly earnest; she had refused to make one. But the choice would have to be made very soon, unless she sent both her lovers packing, a step which she did not for a moment contemplate.

“You must promise to marry one or the other and end this tension,” said Katherine, a little later, after the curate had gone with Mrs. Ware to look at her greenhouses.

“I wish to goodness I could marry them both,” said Viviette. “Have a month with each, turn and turn about. It would be ideal.”

“It would be altogether horrid!” exclaimed Katherine. “How could such a thought enter your head?”

“I suppose it must have entered every woman's head who has two men she's fond of in love with her at once. I said yesterday that it was great fun being a woman, I find it's a d-d-d-d-d imposition,.”

“For Heaven's sake, child, make up your mind quickly,” said Katherine.

Viviette sighed. Which should it be? Dick, with his great love and rough tenderness and big protecting arms, or Austin, with his conquering ways, his wit, his charm, his perception? Austin could give her the luxury that her sensuous nature delighted in, social position, the brilliant life of London. What could Dick give her? It would always be a joy to dress herself with Austin. Dick would be content if she went about in raiment made of dusters and bath towels. In return, what could she give each of these men? She put the question to herself. She was not mercenary or heartless. She gave of herself freely and loved the giving. What could she give to Austin? What could she give to Dick? These questions, in her sober mood, weighed the others down.

When the rain ceased and a pale sun had dried the gravel, she went out into the grounds by herself and faced the problem. She sighed again—many times. If only they would let her have her fun out and give her answer six months hence!

Her meditations were cut short by the arrival of a telegraph boy on his bicycle at the front gate. He gave her the telegram. It was for Austin. Her heart beat. She went into the house with the yellow envelope containing Dick's destiny and mounted to the little room off the first landing which had been Austin's private study since his boyhood. She knocked. Austin's voice bade her enter. He rose from the desk where, pen in hand, he had been sitting before a blank sheet of paper, and, without a word, took the telegram. She noticed, with a shock, that he had curiously changed. The quick, brisk manner had gone. His face was gray.

“It is the telegram, isn't it?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes,” said he, handing it to her. “It's from Lord Overton.”

She read:

“Oh, how splendid!” she exclaimed, with a little gasp of happiness. “How utterly splendid! Thank Heaven!”

“Yes. Thank Heaven,” Austin acquiesced gravely. “I forgot to mention to you that Lord Overton knows Dick personally,” he added, after a pause. “They met at my house the last time Dick was in London.”

“This is good news,” said Viviette. “At last I can give him a birthday present worth having.”

“He will not be here for his birthday,” said Austin, in cold, even tones. “He must catch the mail to-night.”

Viviette echoed: “To-night?”

“And in all probability he will sail for Vancouver in a day or two. It won't be worth his while to come back here.”

She laid a hand on her heart, which fluttered painfully.

“Then—then—we'll never see him again?”

“Probably not.”

“I never thought it would be so sudden,” she said, a little wildly.

“Neither did I. But it's for the best.”

“But supposing he wants some time to look about him?”

“I'll see to everything,” said Austin.

“Anyhow, I must be the first to tell him,” said Viviette.

“You would do me a very great favor if you would let me have that privilege,” said Austin. “I make a particular point of it. I have some serious business to discuss with him before dinner, and that will be the time for me to break the news.”

He was no longer the fairy godmother's devoted and humble factotum. He spoke with a cold air of authority that chilled the fairy godmotherdom in Viviette's bosom. Her pretty little scheme dwindled into childishness before the dark, uncomprehending thing that had happened. She assented with unusual meekness.

“But I'm desperately disappointed,” she said.

“My dear Viviette,” he answered, more kindly, and looking at her with some wistfulness, “the pleasures and even the joy of life have to give way to the sober, business side of existence. It isn't very gay, I know, but we can't alter it.”

He held out his hand. Instinctively she gave him hers. He raised it to his lips, and held the door open for her. She went out, scarcely knowing that she had been dismissed. Austin closed the door, stood unsteadily for a moment like a man stricken with great pain, and then, sitting down at his desk again, put his elbows on the table, rested his head in his hands, and stared at the white piece of paper. When would Dick come home? He had given orders that Dick should be asked to go to him as soon as he arrived.

Would Dick ever come home again? It was quite possible that some misfortune might have happened. Tragedy is apt to engender tragedy. He shuddered, hearing in his fancy the tramp of men and seeing a shrouded thing they carried across the hall. He bitterly accused himself for not having sought Dick far and wide as soon as he had made his ghastly discovery. But he had required time to recover his balance. The horrible suddenness had stunned him. Attempted fratricide is not a common happening in gentle families. He had to accustom himself to the atmosphere of the abnormal so as to state the psychological case in its numberless ramifications. This he had done. His head was clear. His unalterable decision made. Now the minutes dragged with leaden feet until Dick should come.

Viviette was the first to see him. She had dressed early for dinner, and, as the late June afternoon had turned out fine, was taking her problem out to air on the terrace when she came upon him standing at the door of his armory. His hair was wet and matted, his eyes bloodshot, his clothes dripping, and he himself splashed with mud from head to foot. He trembled all over, shaken by a great terror. The case of pistols had gone. Who had taken them? Had the loaded pistol been discovered?

As Viviette appeared, robed in deep blue chiffon that seemed torn from the deep blue evening sky and looking, in the man's maddened eyes, magically beautiful, he held out imploring hands.

“Come in for a moment. For the love of God, come in for a moment.”

He stepped back invitingly. She hesitated for a moment on the threshold, and then followed him down the dim gallery, past the screen where all the swords and helmets lay scattered on the table. He looked at her haggardly, and she met his gaze with kind eyes in which there was no mockery. No. Nothing had happened, he told himself; otherwise she would shrink from him as from something accursed.

“My God, if you knew how I loved you!” he said hoarsely. “My God, if you only knew!”

His suffering racked her heart. All her pity melted over him. She laid her caressing fingers on his arm,

“Oh, my poor Dick!” she said.

The touch, the choke in her voice, brought about her downfall. Perhaps she meant it to do so. Who can tell? What woman herself ever knows? In a flash his arms were around her, and his kisses, a wild, primitive man's kisses, were on her lips, her eyes, her cheeks. Her face was crushed against the rough, wet tweed of his coat, and its odor, raw and coarse, was in her nostrils. She drooped, intoxicated, gasping for breath in his unheeding giant's grip, but she made no effort to escape. As he held her a thrill agonizing and delicious swept through her, and she raised her lips involuntarily to his and closed her eyes.

At last he released her, mangled, touzled, her very self a draggled piece of chiffon like the night-blue frock soiled with wet and mud.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I had no right. Least of all now. God knows what is to become of me. But whatever happens, you know that I love you.”

She had her hands clasped before her face. She could not look at him.

“Yes. I know,” she murmured.

In another moment he had gone, leaving Viviette, who had entered the room a girl, transformed into a woman with the first shiver of passion in her veins.

Dick, vaguely conscious of damp and dirt, went up to his bedroom, The sight of his evening things spread out on the bed reminded him that it was nearly dinner time. Mechanically he washed and dressed. As he was buckling on his ready-made white tie—his clumsy fingers, in spite of many lessons from Viviette, had never learned the trick of tying a bow—a maid brought him a message. Mr. Austin's compliments, and would he see Mr. Austin for a few moments in Mr. Austin's room. The words were like the dreaded tap on the shoulder of the hunted criminal.

“I'll come at once,” he said.

He found Austin sitting on the chair by his desk, resting his chin on his elbow. He did not stir as Dick entered.

“You want to speak to me?”

“Yes,” said Austin, “Will you sit down?”

“I'll stand,” said Dick impatiently. “What have you to say to me?”

“I believe you have expressed your desire to leave England and earn your living in a new country. Is that so?”

The brothers' eyes met. Dick saw that the loaded pistol had been discovered, and read no love, no pity, only condemnation in the hard gaze. Austin was pronouncing sentence.

“Yes,” he replied sullenly.

“I happen,” said Austin, “to know of an excellent opportunity. Lord Overton, whom you have met, wants a man to take charge of his timber forests in Vancouver. The salary is seven hundred pounds a year. I wired to Lord Overton asking for the appointment on your behalf. This is his answer.”

Dick took the telegram and read it, with muddled head. Austin had lost no time.

“You see, it fits in admirably. You can start by the night mail. Your sudden departure needs no other explanation to the household than this telegram. I hope you understand.”

“I understand,” said Dick bitterly. A sudden memory of words that Viviette had used the day before occurred to him. “I understand. This is to get me out of the way. 'David put Uriah in the forefront of the battle.' Vancouver is the forefront.”

“Don't you think we had better avoid all unprofitable discussion?” Austin rose and confronted him. “I expect you to accept this offer and my conditions.”

“And if I refuse,” asked Dick, with rising anger, “what dare you threaten me with?”

Austin raised a deprecatory hand.

“Do you suppose I'm going to threaten you? I simply expect you not to refuse. Your conscience must tell you that I have the right to do so. Doesn't it?”

Dick glowered sullenly at the wall and tugged his great mustache.

“You force me to touch on things I should have liked to keep hidden,” said Austin. “Very well.” He took a scrap of crumpled paper from the desk. “Do you recognize this? It formed the wad of the pistol that was in your hand.”

Dick started back a pace. “You're wrong,” he gasped. “It was your pistol that was loaded.”

“No. Yours. The cap missed fire, or I should have been a dead man—murdered by my brother.”

“Stop,” cried Dick. “Not murdered. No, no; not murdered. It was in fair fight. I gave you the choice. When I thought I had the unloaded one I called on you to fire. Why the devil didn't you? I wanted you to fire. I was mad for you to fire. No one can say I shirked it. I gave you your chance.”

“That's nothing to do with it,” said Austin sternly. “When you fired you meant murder. Your face meant killing. And supposing I had fired—and killed you! Good God! I would sooner you had killed me than burdened my soul with your death. It would have been less cowardly. Yes, cowardly. The conditions were not even. To me it was trivial fooling. To you deadly earnest. Are you not man enough to see that I have the right to exact some penalty?”

Dick remained silent for a few moments, while the powers of light and darkness struggled together in his soul. At last he said in a low voice, hanging his head:

“I'll accept your terms.”

“You leave by the night mail for Witherby?”

“Very well.”

“There's another point,” said Austin. “The most important point of all. You will not speak alone to Viviette before you start.”

Dick turned, with an angry flash.

“What?”

“You will not speak to Viviette alone. When you are gone—for there is no need for you to come back here before you sail—you will not write to her, You will go absolutely and utterly out of her life.”

Dick broke into harsh, furious laughter.

“And leave her to you? I might have known that the lawyer would have had me in the trap. But this time you've overreached yourself. I'll never give her up. Do you hear me? Never, never, never! I would go through the horror of to-day a thousand times—day by day until I die, rather than give her up to you. You shall not take this last thing from me—this hope of winning her—as you have taken everything else. You have supplanted me since first you learned to speak. It has been Esau and Jacob”

“Or Cain and Abel,” said Austin.

“You can taunt me if you like,” cried Dick, goaded to fury, and the whole bitterness of a lifetime surging up in passionate speech. “I have got past feeling it. Your life has been one continual taunt of me. You have thought me a dull, good-natured boor, delighted to have a word thrown at him now and again by the elegant gentleman, and rather honored than otherwise to be ridden over roughshod, or kicked into the mud when it pleased the elegant gentleman to ride by. No, listen to me,” he thundered, as Austin was about to protest. “By God—you shall listen this time. You've made me your butt, your fool, your doer of trivial offices. I've wondered, sometimes, why you haven't addressed me as 'my good fellow,' and asked me to touch my cap to you. I've borne it all these years without complaining—but do you know what it is to eat your heart out and remain silent? I have borne it for my mother's sake—in spite of her dislike of me—and for your sake because I loved you. Yes. If ever one man has loved another I've loved you. But you took no heed. What was my affection worth? I was only the stupid, dull boor—but I suffered it all till you came between me and her. I had spent the whole passion of my life upon her. She was the only thing left in the world for which I felt fiercely. I hungered for her, thirsted for her, my brain throbbed at the thought of her, the blood rushed through my veins at the sight of her. And you came between us. And if I have damned my soul—by God!—the damnation is your doing. Do you think, while I live, that I'll give her up to you? I'll get my soul's worth, anyhow!”

He smote his palm with his clenched fist and strode about the little room. Austin sat for a while dumb with astonishment and dismay. His cherished, lifelong conception of “Dear old Dick” lay shattered. A new Dick appeared to him, a personality stronger, deeper than he could have imagined. A new respect for him, also a new pity that was generous and not contemptuous, crept into his heart.

“Listen, Dick,” said he, using the familiar name for the first time. “Do I understand that you accuse me of sending you out to Vancouver and hastening your departure so as to gain my own ends with Viviette?”

“Yes,” returned Dick, “I do. You have laid this trap for me.”

“Have you ever heard me lie to you?”

“No,” said Dick.

“Then I tell you, as man to man, that until this afternoon I had no suspicion that your feelings toward Viviette were deeper than those of an elder brother.”

Dick laughed bitterly. “You couldn't conceive a clod like me falling in love. Well?”

“That's beside the question,” said Austin. “I did not behave dishonorably toward you. I fell in love with Viviette. How could I help it? How could I help loving her? How could I help telling her so? But she is young and innocent, and her heart is her own yet. Tell me—man to man—dare you say that you have won it or that I have won it?”

“What's the good of talking?” said Dick, relapsing into his sullen mood. “If I go, she is yours. But I won't go.”

Austin rose again, and laid his hand on his brother's arm.

“Dick, if I give her up, will you obey my condition?”

“You give her up voluntarily? Why should you?”

“A damnable thing was done this afternoon,” said Austin. “I see I had my share in it, and I, as well as you, have to make reparation. Man alive! You are my brother!” he cried, with an outburst of feeling. “The nearest thing in the world to me. Do you think I could rest happy with the knowledge that a murderous devil is always in your heart and that it's in my power to—to exorcise it. Do you think the cost matters? Come. Shall we make this bargain? Yes or no?”

“It's easy for you to promise,” said Dick. “But when I am gone, how can you resist?”

Austin hesitated for a moment, biting his lips. Then, with the air of a man who makes an irrevocable step in life, he crossed the room and rang the bell.

“Ask Mrs. Holroyd if she will have the kindness to come here for a minute,” he said to the servant.

Dick regarded him wonderingly. “What has Mrs. Holroyd to do with our affairs?”

“You'll see,” said Austin, and there was silence between them, till Katherine came.

She looked from one joyless face to the other, and sat without a word on the chair that Austin placed for her. Her woman's intuition divined a sequel to the afternoon's drama. Some of it she had already learned. For, going earlier into Viviette's room, she had found her white and shaken, still disordered in hair and dress as Dick had left her; and Viviette had sobbed on her bosom and told her, with some incoherence, that the monkey had at last hid the lyddite shell in the wrong place and that it was all over with the monkey. So before Austin spoke, she half divined why he had summoned her. Her heart throbbed painfully.

“Dick and I,” said Austin, “have been talking of serious matters, and we need your help.”

She smiled wanly. “I'll do whatever I can, Austin.”

“You said this afternoon you'd do anything I asked you. Do you remember?”

“Yes. I said so; and I meant it.”

“You said it in reply to my question whether you could accept me if I asked you to marry me.”

Dick started from the sullen stupor into which he had fallen and listened with perplexed interest.

“You are not quite right in your tenses, Austin,” she remarked. “You said: 'Would I have accepted you if you had asked me.'”

“I want to change the tense into the present,” he replied.

She met his glance calmly. “You ask me to marry you in spite of what you told me this afternoon?”

“In spite of it and because of it,” he said, drawing up a chair near to her. “A great crisis has arisen in our lives that must make you forget other words I spoke this afternoon. Those other words and everything connected with them I blot out of my memory forever. I want you to do me an infinite service. If there had been no deep affection between us I should not dare to ask you. I want you to be my wife—to take me into your keeping—to trust me as an upright man to devote my life to your happiness. I swear I'll never give you a moment's cause for regret.”

She plucked for a while at her gown. It was a strange wooing. But in her sweet way she had given him her woman's aftermath of love. It was a gentle, mellow gift, far removed from the summer blaze of passion, and it had suffered little harm from the sadness of the day. She saw that he was in great stress. She knew him to be loyal to the core.

“Is this the result of that scene in the armory?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” said Austin.

“I was right, then. It was a matter of life and death.”

“It was,” said he. “So is this.”

She looked again from one face to the other, rose, hesitated a moment, and then held out her hand.

“I am willing to trust you, Austin,” she said.

He touched her hand with his lips, and said gravely: “I will not fail your trust.”

As soon as she had gone he went to the chair where Dick sat in gloomy remorse and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Well?” said he.

“I agree,” Dick groaned, without looking up. “I have no alternative. I appreciate your generosity.”

Then Austin spoke of the appointment in Vancouver. He explained how the idea had occurred to him; how Viviette had come late the night before to tell him of what he had never before suspected—Dick's desire to go abroad; how they had conspired to give him a birthday surprise; how they had driven over to Witherby to send the telegram to Lord Overton. And as he spoke, Dick looked at him with a new ghastliness on his face.

“This afternoon—in the dining room—when you said that Viviette had told you everything.”

“About your wish to go to the colonies. What else?”

“And what I overheard in the armory—about a telegram—telling me—putting me out of my misery?”

“Only whether we should tell you to-night or to-morrow about the appointment. Dick—Dick,” said Austin, deeply moved by the great fellow's collapse. “If I have wronged you all these years, it was through want of insight, not want of affection. If I have taunted you, as you say, it was merely a lifelong habit of jesting which you never seemed to resent. I was unconscious of hurting you. For my blindness and carelessness I beg your forgiveness. With regard to Viviette—I ought to have seen, but I didn't. I don't say you had no cause for jealousy—but as God hears me—all the little conspiracy to-day was lovingly meant—all to give you pleasure. I swear it.”

Dick rose and stumbled about among the furniture. The setting sun fell just below the top of the window, and its rays flooded the room and showed Dick in a strange, unearthly light.

“I wronged you,” he said bitterly. “Even in my passion I'm a dull fool. I thought you a scoundrel—and my resentment grew—and I drank—I was drunk all this afternoon—and madness came—and when I saw you kiss her—yes, I saw you—I was peeping from behind the screen—things went red before my eyes—and it was then that I loaded the pistol to shoot you on the spot. God forgive me! May God have mercy upon me!”

He leaned his arms on the sill and buried his face.

“I can't ask your forgiveness,” he went on, after a moment. “It would be a mockery.” He laughed mirthlessly. “How can I say: 'I'm sorry I meant to murder you—please don't think anything more about it'?” He turned with a fierce gesture. “Oh, you must take it all as said, man! Now, have you finished with me? I can't stand it much longer. I agree to all your terms. I'll drive over to Witherby now and wait for the train—and you'll be free of me.”

He turned again and moodily looked out of the window in the full flood of the sunset.

“We must play the game, Dick,” said Austin gently, “and go through the horrible farce of dinner—for mother's sake.”

Dick heard him vaguely. Below, on the terrace, Viviette was walking, and she filled his universe. She had changed the bedraggled frock for the green one she had worn the night before. Presently she raised her eyes and saw him leaning out of the window.

“Have they told you that dinner is not till a quarter to eight?” she cried. “Lord Banstead sent a message to mother that he was unexpectedly detained, and mother has put back dinner. Isn't it impudence?”

But Dick was far too crushed with misery to respond. He nodded dejectedly. She remained staring up at him for a while, and then ran into the house.

Dick listlessly mentioned the postponement of dinner.

“I'm sorry I asked the little brute, but I couldn't avoid it.”

“What does it matter?” said Austin.

He was silent for a moment. Then he came close to Dick.

“Dick,” said he, “let us end this awful scene as friends and brothers. As Heaven hears me there is no bitterness in my heart. Only deep sorrow—and love, Dick. Shake hands.”

Dick took his hand, and broke down utterly, and said such things of himself as other men do not like to hear. Presently there was a light rap of knuckles at the door. Austin opened it and beheld Viviette.

“I won't disturb you,” she said. “I only want to give this note to Dick.”

“I will hand it to him,” said Austin.

She thanked him and departed. He closed the door and gave Dick the note. Dick opened it, read, and, with a great cry of “Viviette!” rushed to the door. Austin interposed, grasped him by the wrist.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm going to her,” shouted Dick wildly, wrenching himself free. “Read this.” He held up the note before Austin's eyes, with shaking fingers. Austin read:

“She loves me. She'll marry me. She'll go out to Vancouver!” cried Dick. “It changes everything. I must go to her.”

“You shall not go,” said Austin.

“Shall not? Who dares prevent me?”

“I do. I hold you to your word.

“But, man alive, she loves me! Don't you see? The bargain is dissolved. This is none of my seeking. She comes of her own free will. I am going to her.”

Austin put both his hands affectionately on the big man's shoulders and forced him into a chair.

“Listen to me just for one minute, Dick. Dick—you dare not marry. Don't drive me to tell you the reason. Can't you see for yourself why I've imposed this condition on you all along?”

“I know no reason,” said Dick. “She loves me, and that is enough.”

The grayness deepened on Austin's face, and the pain in his eyes.

“I must speak, then, in plain terms. That horrible murder impulse is the reason. To-day, in a fit of frenzied jealousy, you would have killed me, your brother. Is there any guarantee that in another fit of frenzied jealousy you might not”

A shudder ran through Dick's great frame. He stretched out his hand. “For God's sake—don't!”

“I must—until you see this ghastly business in its true aspect. Look at the lighter side of Viviette's character. She is gay—fond of admiration—childishly fond of teasing—a bright creature of bewildering moods. Would she be safe in your hands? Might you not one day again see things red before your eyes and again go mad?”

“Don't say any more,” Dick said, in a choking voice. “I can't stand it.”

“Heaven knows I didn't want to say as much,”

Dick shuddered again. “Yes, you are right. I am a man with a curse. I can't marry her. I daren't. But, oh, God!” he cried, in a voice that wrung the other to the soul. “I would have been as tender and as faithful to her as a dog!”

Presently Dick raised the face of Cain when he told the Lord that his punishment was greater than he could bear. Tears leaped to Austin's eyes, but he turned his head away lest Dick should see them. He would have given years of his life to spare Dick—everything he had in the world—save his deep convictions of right and wrong. He was responsible for Viviette. The risk of horror he could not let her run. He had hoped, with a great agony of hope, that Dick would have seen this for himself. To formulate it had been torture. But he could not weaken. The barrier between Dick and Viviette was not of his making. It was composed of the grim psychological laws that govern the abnormal. To have disregarded it would have been a crime from which his soul shrank. All the despair in Dick's face, though it wrung his heart, could not move him. It was terrible to be chosen in this way to be the arbiter of destiny. 3ut there was the decree, written in letters of blood and flame. And Dick had bowed to it.

“What's to become of her?” he groaned,

“This will be her home as it always has been,” said Austin.

“I don't mean that—but between us we shall break her heart. She has given it to me just in time for me to do it. My luck!”

Austin tried to comfort him. A girl's heart was not easily broken. Her pride would suffer most. Pain was inevitable, but time healed many wounds. In this uncertain world nothing was ever so good as we hoped and nothing ever so bad as we feared. Dick paid little heed to the platitudes.

“She must be told.”

“Not what happened this afternoon,” cried Austin quickly. “That we bury forever from all human knowledge.”

“Yes,” said Dick, staring in front of him and speaking in a dull, even voice. “We must hide that. It's not a pretty thing to spread before a girl's eyes. It will be always before my own until I die. But she must be told that I can't marry her. I can't ride away, and leave her in doubt and wonder forever and ever.”

“Let us face this horrible night as best we can,” said Austin. “Avoid seeing her alone. You'll be with mother or packing most of the evening. Slip away to Witherby an hour or so before your time. When you're gone I'll arrange matters. Leave it to me.”

He made one of his old self-confident gestures. But now Dick felt no resentment. His spirit in its deep abasement saw in Austin the better, wiser, stronger man.

At a quarter to eight they went slowly downstairs to what promised to be a nightmare kind of meal. There would be four persons, Viviette, Katherine, and themselves in a state of suppressed eruption, and two, Mrs. Ware and the unspeakable Banstead, complacently unaware of volcanic forces around them, who might by any chance word bring about disaster. There was danger, too —and the greatest—from Viviette, ignorant of destiny. Austin dreaded the ordeal; but despair and remorse had benumbed Dick's faculties; he had passed the stage at which men fear. With his hand on the knob of the drawing-room door, Austin paused and looked at him.

“Pull yourself together, man. Play your part. For God's sake, try to look cheerful.”

Dick tried. Austin shivered.

“For God's sake, don't!” he said.

They entered the drawing room, expecting to find the three ladies and possibly Lord Banstead assembled for dinner. To Austin's discomfiture Viviette was alone in the room. She rose, made a step or two to meet them, then stopped.

“What a pair of faces! One would think it were the eve of Dick's execution, and you were the hangman measuring him for the noose.”

“Dick,” said Austin, “is leaving us to-night—possibly for many years.”

“I don't see that he is so very greatly to be pitied,” said Viviette, trying in vain to meet Dick's eyes.

She drew him a pace or two aside.

“Did you read my note—or did you tear it up like the other one?”

“I read it,” he said, looking askance at the floor.

“Then why are you so woebegone?”

He replied, in a helpless way, that he was not woebegone. Viviette was puzzled, hurt, somewhat humiliated. She had made woman's great surrender, which is usually followed by a flourish of trumpets very gratifying to hear. In fact, to most women the surrender is worth the flourish. But the recognition of this surrender appeared to find its celebration in a funeral march with muffled drums. A condemned man being fitted for the noose, as she had suggested, a mute conscientiously mourning at his own funeral, a man who had lost a stately demesne in Paradise and had been ironically compensated by the gift of a bit of foreshore of the Styx, could not have worn a less joyous expression than he on whom she had conferred the boon of his heart's desire.

“You're not only woebegone,” she said, with spirit, “but you're utterly miserable. I think I have a right to know the reason. Tell me, what is it?”

She tapped a small, impatient foot.

“We haven't told my mother yet,” Austin explained, “and Dick is rather nervous as to the way in which she will take the news.”

“Yes,” said Dick, with lame huskiness, “it's on mother's account.”

Viviette laughed somewhat scornfully.

“I'm not a child, my dear Austin. No man wears a face like that on account of his mother—least of all, when he meets the woman who has promised to be his wife.”

She flashed a challenging glance at Austin, but not a muscle of his gray face responded. Her natural expectations were baffled. There was no start of amazement, no fierce movement of anger, no indignant look of reproach. She was thrown back on herself. She said:

“I don't think you quite understand. Dick had two aims in life—one to obtain a colonial appointment—the other—so he led me to suppose—to marry me. He has the appointment and I have promised to marry him.”

“I know,” said Austin, “but you must make allowances.”

“If that's all you can say on behalf of your client,” retorted Viviette, “I rather wonder at your success as a barrister.”

“Don't you think, my dear,” said Austin gently, “that we are treading on delicate ground?”

“Delicate ground!” she scoffed. “We seem to have been treading on a volcano all the afternoon. I'm tired of it.” She faced the two men with uplifted head. “I want an explanation.”

“Of what?” Austin asked.

“Of Dick's attitude. What has he got to be miserable about? Tell me.”

“But I'm not miserable, my dear Viviette,” said poor Dick, vainly forcing a smile. “I'm really quite happy.”

Her woman's intuition. rejected the protest with contumely. All the afternoon he had been mad with jealousy of Austin. An hour ago he had whirled her out of her senses in savage passion. But a few minutes before she had given him all a woman has to give. Now he met her with hangdog visage, apologies from Austin, and milk-and-water asseveration of a lover's rapture. The most closely folded rosebud miss of early Victorian times could not have faced the situation without showing something of the Eve that lurked in the hearts of the petals. So much the less could Viviette, child of a freer, franker day, hide her just indignation under the rose leaves of maidenly modesty.

“Happy!” she echoed. “I've known you since I was a child of three. I know the meaning of every light and every shadow that passes over your face—except this shadow now. What does it mean?”

She asked the question imperiously, no longer the elfin changeling, the fairy of bewildering moods of Austin's imagining, no longer the laughing coquette of Katherine's less picturesque fancy, but a modern young woman of character, considerably angered and very much in earnest. Austin bit his lip in perplexity. Dick looked around like a hunted animal seeking a bolting hole.

“Dick is anxious,” said Austin at length, seeing that some explanation must be given, “that there should be no engagement between you before he goes out to Vancouver.”

“Indeed?” said Viviette. “May I ask why? As this concerns Dick and myself, perhaps you will leave us alone for a moment so that Dick may tell me.”

“No, no,” Dick muttered hurriedly. “Don't leave us, Austin. We can't talk of such a thing now.”

Again she tapped her foot impatiently.

“Yes, now. I'm going to hear the reason now, whatever it is.”

The brothers exchanged glances. Dick turned to the window, and stared at the mellow evening sky. Austin again was spokesman.

“Dick finds he has made a terrible and cruel mistake. One that concerns you intimately.”

“Whatever Dick may have done with regard to me,” replied Viviette proudly, “I forgive him for it beforehand. When once I give a thing I don't take it back. I have given him my love and my promise.”

“My dear,” said Austin gravely and kindly. “Here are two men who have loved you all your life. Don't think hardly of us. You must be brave and bear a great shock. Dick can't marry you.”

She looked at him incredulously.

“Can't marry me? Why not?”

“It would be better not to ask.”

She moved swiftly to Dick, and with her light touch swung him round to face the room.

“I don't understand. Is it because you're going out into the wilds? That doesn't matter. I told you I would go to Vancouver with you. I want to go. My happiness is with you.”

Dick groaned. “Don't make it harder for me.”

“What are you keeping from me?” she asked. “Is it anything you don't think fit for my ears? If so, speak? I'm no longer a child. Is there another woman in the case?”

She met Austin's eyes full.

He said: “No, thank God! Nothing of that sort.” And as her eyes did not waver, he made the bold stroke. “He finds that he doesn't love you as much as he thought. There's the whole tragedy in a few words.”

She reeled back as if struck.

“Dick doesn't love me!”

Then the announcement seemed so grotesque in its improbability that she began to laugh, a trifle hysterically.

“Is this true?”

“It's quite true,” said poor Dick.

“You see, my dear,” said Austin, “what it costs him—what it costs us both—to tell you this.”

“But I don't understand. I don't understand!” she cried, with sudden piteousness. “What did you mean, then—a little while ago—in the armory?”

Austin, who did not see the allusion, had to allow Dick to speak for himself.

“I was drunk,” said Dick desperately. “I've been drinking heavily of late—and not accountable for my actions. I oughtn't to have done what I did.”

“And so, you see,” continued Austin, with some eagerness, “when he became confronted with the great change of his life—Vancouver—he looked at things soberly. He found that his feelings toward you were not of the order that would warrant his making you his wife.”

Before Viviette could reply the door opened and Mrs. Ware and Katherine entered the room. Mrs. Ware, ignorant of tension, went smilingly to Austin, and drawing down his shapely head with both hands, kissed him.

“My dear, dear boy, I'm so glad, so truly glad. Katherine has just told me.”

“Told you what, mother?” asked Viviette quickly, with a new sharpness in her voice.

Mrs. Ware turned a beaming face. “Can't you guess, darling? Oh, Austin, there's no living woman whom I would sooner call my daughter. You've made me so happy.”

The facile tears came, and she sat down and dried them on her little wisp of handkerchief.

“I thought it for the best to tell your mother, Austin,” said Katherine, somewhat apologetically. “We were speaking of you—and—I couldn't keep it back.”

Viviette, white-lipped and dazed, looked at Austin, Katherine, and Dick in turns. She said in a high-pitched voice to Austin:

“Have you asked Katherine to marry you?”

“Yes,” he replied, not quite so confidently and avoiding her glance, “and she has done me the honor of accepting me.”

Katherine held out a conciliatory hand to Viviette.

“Won't you congratulate me, dear?”

“And Austin, too,” said Mrs. Ware.

But Viviette lost control of herself.

“I'll congratulate nobody! I'll congratulate nobody!” she cried shrilly.

She burned with a sense of intolerable outrage. Only a few hours before she had been befooled into believing herself to be the mistress of the destinies of two men. Both had offered her their love. Both had kissed her. The memory lashed her into fury. Now one of them avowed that she had been merely the object of a drunken passion, and the other came before her as the affianced husband of the woman who called herself her dearest friend.

Katherine in deep distress laid her hand on the girl's arm.

“Why not, dear? I thought that you and Dick—in fact—I understood”

Viviette freed herself from Katherine's touch.

“Oh, no, you didn't. You didn't understand anything. You didn't try to. You are all lying. The three of you. You have all lied, and lied, and lied to me. I tell you to your faces you have lied to me.” She swung passionately to each in turn. “'Austin can never be anything to me but a friend.' How often have you said that to me? Ah—Saint Nitouche! And you”—to Austin—“how dared you insult me this morning? And you—how have you dared to insult me all the time? You've lied—the whole lot of you—and I hate you all!”

Mrs. Ware had risen, scared and trembling.

“What does the girl mean? I've never heard such unladylike words in a drawing room in my life.”

Dick blundered in: “It's all my fault, mother”

“I've not the slightest doubt of that,” returned the old lady, with asperity. “But what Austin and Katherine have to do with it I can't imagine.”

The servant opened the door.

“Lord Banstead.”

He entered in a cold, strange silence. Every one had forgotten him. He must have attributed the ungenial atmosphere to his own lateness—it was half-past eight—for he made penitent apology to Mrs. Ware. Austin greeted him coldly. Dick nodded absently from the other side of the room. Viviette, with a sweeping glance of defiance at the assembled family, held herself very erect, and, with hard eyes and quivering lips, came straight to the young fellow.

“Lord Banstead,” she said, “you have asked me four times to marry you. Did you mean it, or were you lying, too?”

3anstead's pallid cheeks flushed. He was overcome with confusion.

“Of course I meant it—meant to ask you again to-day—ask you now.”

“Then I will marry you.”

Dick strode forward and, catching her by the wrist, swung her away from Banstead, his face aflame with sudden passion.

“No, by God, you shan't!”

Banstead retreated a few paces, scared out of his life. Mrs. Ware sought Austin's protecting arm.

“What does all this mean? I don't understand it.”

Austin led her to the door. “I'll see nothing unpleasant happens, dear. You had better go and tell them to keep back dinner yet a few minutes.”

His voice and authority soothed her, and she left the room, casting a terrified glance at Dick standing threateningly over Lord Banstead, who had muttered something about Viviette being free to do as she liked.

“She can do what she likes, but, by God, she shan't marry you!”

“I'm of age,” declared Viviette fiercely. “I marry whom I choose.”

“Of course she can,” said Banstead. “Are you taking leave of your senses?”

“How dare you ask a pure girl to marry you?” cried Dick furiously. “You who have come this minute”

Banstead found some spirit.

“Shut up, Ware,” he interrupted. “Play the game. You've no right to say that.”

“I have the right,” cried Dick.

“Hush!” said Austin, interposing. “There's no need to prolong this painful discussion. To-morrow—as Viviette's guardian”

“To-morrow?” Dick shouted. “Where shall I be to-morrow? Away from here—unable to defend her—unable to say a word.”

“If you said a thousand words,” said Viviette, “they wouldn't make an atom of difference. Lord Banstead has asked me to marry him. I have accepted him openly. What dare you say to it?”

“Yes,” said Banstead. “She has made no bones about it. I've asked her five times. Now she accepts me. What have you to say to it?”

“I say she shan't marry you,” said Dick, glaring at the other.

“Steady, steady, Dick,” said Austin warningly.

But Dick shook his warning angrily aside, and Austin saw that, once again that day, Dick was desperate.

“Not while I live shall she marry you. Don't I know your infernal, beastly life?”

“Now, look here,” said Banstead, at bay. “What the deuce have you got to do with my affairs?”

“Everything. Do you think she loves you, cares for you, honors you, respects you?”

Viviette faced him with blazing eyes.

“I do,” she said defiantly.

“It's a lie,” cried Dick. “It's you that are lying now. Heaven and earth! I've suffered enough to-day—I thought I had been through hell—but it's nothing to this. She loves me—do you hear—me—me—me—and I can't marry her—and I don't care a damn who knows the reason.”

“Stop, man, stop!” said Austin.

“Let me be. She shall know the truth. Every one shall know the truth. At any rate, it will save her from this.”

“I will do it quietly, later, Dick.”

“Let me be, I tell you,” said Dick, with great, clumsy, passionate gesture. “Let's have no more lies.” He turned to Viviette. “You wrote me a letter. You said you loved me—would marry me—come out to Vancouver. The words made me drunk with happiness—at first. You saw me. I refused your love and your offer. I said I didn't love you. I lied. I said I couldn't marry you. It was the truth. I can't. I can't. But love you! There were flames of hell in my heart—but couldn't you see the love shining through?”

“Don't, Dick; don't!” cried Katherine.

“I will,” he exclaimed wildly. “I'll tell her why I can't marry any woman. I'm a murderer in my heart. I tried to murder Austin this afternoon!”

Katherine closed her eyes. She had guessed it. But Viviette, with parted lips and white cheeks, groped her way backward to a chair, without shifting her terror-stricken gaze from Dick; and sitting, she gripped the arms of the chair.

There was a moment of tense silence. Banstead at last relieved his feelings with a gasping: “Well, I'm damned.”

Dick continued:

“It was jealousy—mad, hideous, fiendish jealousy—this afternoon—in the armory—the mock duel—one of the pistols was loaded. I loaded it—first, in order to kill him out of hand—then I thought of the duel—he would have his chance—either he would kill me or I would kill him. Mine happened to be loaded. It missed fire. It was only the infinite mercy of God that I didn't kill him. He found it out. He has forgiven me. He's worth fifty millions of me. But my hands are red with his blood, and I can't touch your pure garments. They would stain them red—and I could see red again before my eyes some day. A man like me is not fit to marry any woman. A murderer is beyond the pale. So I said I didn't love her to save her from the knowledge of this horror. And now I'm going to the other side of the world to work out my salvation—but she shall know that a man loves her with all his soul and would go through any torment and renunciation for her sake—and, knowing that, she can't go and throw herself away on a man unworthy of her. After what I've told you, will you marry this man?”

Still looking at him, motionless, she whispered: “No.”

“I say!” exclaimed Banstead. “I think”

Austin checked further speech. Dick looked haggardly round the room.

“There. Now you all know. I'm not fit to be under the same roof with you. Good-by.”

He slouched in his heavy way to the door, but Viviette sprang from her chair and planted herself in his path—a transfigured woman.

“No. You shan't go. Do you think I have nothing to say?”

“Say what you like,” said Dick sadly. “Nothing is too black for me. Curse me if you will.”

She laughed, and shook her head.

“Do you think a woman curses the man who would commit murder for the love of her?” she cried, with a strange exultation in her voice. “If I loved you before—don't you think I love you now a million times more?”

Dick fell back, thrilled with amazement.

“You love me still,” he gasped. “You don't shrink”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Banstead, crossing the room. “Does this mean that you chuck me, Miss Hastings?”

“You must release me from my promise, Lord Banstead,” she said gently. “I scarcely knew what I was doing. I'm very sorry. I've not behaved well to you.”

“You've treated me damned badly,” said Banstead, turning on his heel. “Good-by, everybody.”

Austin, moved by compunction, tried to conciliate the angry youth; but he refused comfort. He had been made a fool of and would stand that treatment from nobody. He would not stay for dinner and would not put his foot inside the house again.

“At any rate,” said Austin, bidding him good-by, “I can rely on you not to breathe a word to any what you've heard this evening?”

Banstead fingered his underfed mustache.

“I may be pretty rotten, but I'm not that kind of cad,” said he. And he went, not without a certain dignity.

Dick took Viviette's hand and kissed it tenderly.

“God bless you, dear. I'll remember what you've said all my life. I can go away almost happy.”

“You can go away quite happy, if you like,” said Viviette. “Take me with you.”

“To Vancouver?”

Austin joined them. “It is impossible, dear,” said he.

“I go with him to Vancouver,” she said.

Dick wrung his hands.

“But I daren't marry you, Viviette. I daren't, I daren't!”

“Don't you see that it's impossible, Viviette?” said Austin.

“Why?”

“I've explained it to Dick—he has hinted it to you. You're scarcely old enough to understand, my dear. It is the risk you run.”

“Such men as I can't marry,” said Dick loyally. “You don't understand Austin is right. The risk is too great.”

She laughed in superb contempt.

“The risk? Do you think I'm such a fool as not to understand? Do you think, after what I've said, that I'm a child? Risk? What is life or love worth without risk? When a woman loves a fierce man she takes the risk of his fierceness. It's her joy. I'll take the risk, and it will be a bond between us.”

Austin implored her to listen to reason. She swept his arguments aside.

“God forbid! I'll listen to love,” she cried. “And if ever a man wanted love, it's Dick. Reason! Come, Dick, let us leave this god and goddess of reason alone. I've got something to say which only you can hear.”

She dragged him in a bewildered state of mind to the door, which she held open. She was absolute mistress of the situation. She motioned to Dick to precede her, and he obeyed like a man in a dream. On the threshold she paused, and flashed defiance at Austin, who appeared to her splendid scorn but a small, narrow-natured man.

“You can say and think what you like, you two. You are civilized people—and I suppose you love in a civilized way according to reason. I'm a primitive woman, and Dick's a primitive man—and, thank God, we understand each other, and love each other as primitive people do.”

She slammed the door, and in another moment was caught in Dick's great arms.

“What do you want to say that I only can hear?” he asked, after a while.

“This,” she said. “I want you to love me strongly and fiercely forever and ever—and I'll be a great wife to you—and if I fail—if I am ever wanton as I have been to-day—for I have been wanton—and all that has happened has been my fault—if ever I play fast and loose with your love again—I want you to kill me. Promise!”

She looked at him with glowing eyes.

All the big man's heart melted into adoring pity. He took her face in both his hands as tenderly as he would have touched a prize rose bloom.

“Thank God, you're still a child, dear,” he said.

“But will you kill me?” she insisted.

“I surely hope not,” said Mrs. Ware, suddenly appearing. “I've told them to bring in dinner. I really can't have the household arrangements upset any further.”

title: Viviette (Ainslee's serial)/Part 2


text: Flora's Lexicon/Convolvulus-2

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: Flora's Lexicon/Convolvulus-2


text:
Page:Thomas Patrick Hughes - Notes on Muhammadanism - 2ed. (1877).djvu/181

theological literature is very extensive, and m consequence of the cheapness of lithographic printing, it is daily increasing.

The following are its chief divisions:—

(1.) Hadís.—Accounts of the precepts and practice of Muhammad. The collectors of Hadís may be numbered by hundreds, but the chief authorities are the six books known as the Siháh-i-Sita, or "six correct books." The popular work on the subject amongst the Sunnis of India being the Mishkát-ul-Musábih. (See article on Traditions.)

(2.) Usúl (lit. "roots").—Treatises on the rules and principles of the four foundations of the Islám law,—being expositions of the exegesis of the Qurán and Hadís, and the principles of Ijmaʾ and Qiás. The most popular works on this subject are the Manár, by


text:
Page:Satyagraha in South Africa.pdf/189

 as regards the punishment of criminals, they could not be given effect to in South Africa. Gandhi himself might not take any steps, but the assault was committed not in a private place but on the high roads and was therefore a public offence. Several Englishmen too were in a position to tender evidence and the offenders must be prosecuted. Upon this the Attorney-General re-arrested Mir Alam and one of his companions who were sentenced to three months’ hard labour. Only I was not summoned as a witness.

But let us return to the sick room. Dr Thwaites came in while Mr Chamney was still away. He examined me and stitched up the wounds in the cheek and on the upper lip. He prescribed some medicine to be applied to the ribs and enjoined silence upon me so long as the stitches were not removed. He restricted my diet to liquids only. He said that none of the injuries was serious, that I should be able to leave my bed and take up my ordinary activities in a week, but that I should be careful not to undertake much physical strain for two months more. So saying he left.

Thus speech was forbidden me, but I was still master of my hands. I addressed a short note as follows to the community through the Chairman and sent it for publication:

‘I am well in the brotherly and sisterly hands of Mr and Mrs Doke. I hope to take up my duty shortly.

‘Those who have committed the act did not know what they were doing. They thought that I was doing what was wrong. They have had their redress in the only manner they know. I therefore request that no steps be taken against them.

‘Seeing that the assault was committed by a Musalman or Musalmans, the Hindus might probably feel hurt. If so, they would put themselves in the wrong before the world and their Maker. Rather let the blood spilt today cement the two communities indissolubly—such is my heartfelt prayer. May God grant it.

title: Page:Satyagraha in South Africa.pdf/189


text:
Page:Satyagraha in South Africa.pdf/190

 ‘Assault or no assault, my advice remains the same. The large majority of Asiatics ought to give finger-prints. Those who have real conscientious scruples will be exempted by the Government. To ask for more would be to show ourselves as children.

‘The spirit of Satyagraha rightly understood should make the people fear none and nothing but God. No cowardly fear therefore should deter the vast majority of sober-minded Indians from doing their duty. The promise of repeal of the Act against voluntary registration having been given, it is the sacred duty of every good Indian to help the Government and the Colony to the uttermost.’

Mr Chamney returned with the papers and I gave my finger-prints but not without pain. I then saw that tears stood in Mr Chamney’s eyes. I had often to write bitterly against him, but this showed me how man’s heart may be softened by events.

The reader will easily imagine that all this did not take more than a few minutes. Mr Doke and his good wife were anxious that I should be perfectly at rest and peaceful, and were therefore pained to witness my mental activity after the assault. They were afraid that it might react in a manner prejudicial to my health. They, therefore, by making signs and similar devices, removed all persons from near my bed, and asked me not to write or do anything. I made a request in writing, that before and in order that I might lie down quietly, their daughter Olive, who was then only a little girl, should sing for me my favourite English hymn, ‘Lead, kindly light.’ Mr Doke liked this very much and acceded to my request with a sweet smile. He called Olive by signs and asked her to stand at the door and sing the hymn in a low tone. The whole scene passes before my eyes as I dictate this, and the melodious voice of little Olive reverberates in my ears.

I have included in this chapter much that, I think and the reader too will think, is irrelevant to my subject. Yet I cannot close this chapter without adding one

title: Page:Satyagraha in South Africa.pdf/190


text: Jesuit Education/Chapter 2

title: Jesuit Education/Chapter 2


text:
Page:Satyagraha in South Africa.pdf/191

 reminiscence, too sacred to be omitted. How shall I describe the service rendered to me by the Doke family?

Mr Joseph Doke was a Baptist minister then 46 years old and had been in New Zealand before he came to South Africa. Some six months before this assault, he came to my office and sent in his card. On seeing the word ‘Reverend’ before his name, I wrongly imagined that he had come, as some other clergymen did, to convert me to Christianity or to advise me to give up the struggle or perhaps to express patronizing sympathy with the movement. Mr Doke entered, and we had not talked many minutes before I saw how sadly I had misjudged him and mentally apologized to him. I found him familiar with all the facts of the struggle which were published in newspapers. He said, ‘Please consider me as your friend in this struggle. I consider it my religious duty to render you such help as I can. If I have learnt any lesson from the life of Jesus, it is this that one should share and lighten the load of those who are heavily laden.’ We thus got acquainted with each other, and every day marked an advance in our mutual affection and intimacy. The name of Mr Doke will often recur in course of the present volume, but it was necessary to say a few words by way of introducing him to the reader before I describe the delicate attention I received at the hands of the Dokes.

Day and night one or other member of the family would be waiting upon me. The house became a sort of caravanserai so long as I stayed there. All classes of Indians flocked to the place to inquire after my health, and when later permitted by the doctor, to see me, from the humble hawker basket in hand with dirty clothes and dusty boots right up to the Chairman of the Transvaal British Indian Association. Mr Doke would receive all of them in his drawing room with uniform courtesy and consideration, and so long as I lived with the Dokes, all their time was occupied either with nursing me or with receiving the hundreds of people who looked in to see me. Even at night Mr Doke would quietly peep twice or thrice

title: Page:Satyagraha in South Africa.pdf/191


text:
Uncle William/Chapter 22

NDY eased in to the wharf with cautious eye. He threw the rope to Uncle William and busied himself with the sail.

Uncle William peered down upon him. “Got quite a nice mess, did n’t ye?”

“Yep.”

“How ’d they run?”

“Cod—mostly.”

“Ye got some halibut.”

“A few.” Andy admitted it grudgingly. His tone implied that the Creator withheld halibut out of pure spite. The ways of the universe were a personal grievance to Andy.

“Quite a nice mess,” said Uncle William. “Goin’ to unload?”

“Nope—wait for the tide.”

“Ye ’ll jest about make it,” said Uncle William. He glanced at the sky. “I ’ll come down and help ye clean, like enough, after supper.”

Andy climbed up in silence. His somber face appeared above the edge of the wharf. Uncle William looked down on it, smiling. “I ’ve got good news for ye, Andy.”

“Huh?” Andy paused half way.

Uncle William nodded. “You ’ll be reel tickled about it. I ’m goin’ to have a new boat—right off.”

“Ye be?” Andy’s mouth remained open. It took in the sky and the bay and Uncle William’s smile.

“Right off. I knew ye ’d be glad.”

The mouth came together. “Where you goin’ to get it?”

“He ’s got some money.” Uncle William nodded toward the cliff.

Andy looked. “He ’s poor as poverty. He ’s said so—times enough.”

Uncle William smiled. “He ’s had luck—quite a run o’ luck. He ’s been sellin’ picters—three-four on ’em.”

“What ’s picters!” said Andrew, scornfully. He scrambled on to the wharf with a backward glance at the Andrew Halloran. “You won’t buy no boat off o’ picters, Willum. A boat costs three hunderd dollars—a good one.”

“I was cal’atin’ to pay five hunderd,” said Uncle William.

“You was?” Andy wheeled about. “You won’t get it out o’ him!” He jerked a thumb at the cliff.

Uncle William chuckled. “Now, ye ’ve made a mistake, Andy. He ’s got that much and he ’s got more.” The gentle triumph in Uncle William’s tone diffused itself over the landscape.

Andy took it in slowly. “How much?” he asked at last.

“Six-seven thousand,” said Uncle William.

“What!” Andy’s feet scuffed a little. “’T ain’t reasonable,” he said feebly.

“No, ’t ain’t reasonable.” Uncle William spoke gently. “I was a good deal s’prised myself, Andy, when I found how high they come—picters. Ye can’t own a gre’t many of ’em—not at one time.”

“Don’t want to,” said Andy, caustically.

“No, you would n’t take much comfort in ’em,” said William. “’T is cur’us ’t anybody should want a picter o’ my old hut up there ’nough to pay—how much d’ ye s’pose they did pay for it, Andy?”

Andy glanced at it contemptuously. It glowed in the light of the late sun, warm and radiant. “’T ain’t wuth a hunderd,” he said.

Uncle William’s face fell a little. “Well, I would n’t say jest that, Andy.

“Roof leaks,” said Andrew.

“A leetle,” admitted Uncle William, “over ’n the southeast corner. She ’s weather-tight all but that.” He gazed at the little structure affectionately. The sun flamed at the windows, turning them to gold. The artist’s face appeared at one of them, beckoning and smiling. Uncle William turned to Andy. “A man give him two thousand for it,” he said. There was sheer pride in the words.

“For that?” Andy looked at him for a minute. Then he looked at the house and the bay and the flaming sky. His left eyelid lowered itself slowly and he tapped his forehead significantly with one long finger.

Uncle William shook his head. “He ’s as sensible as you be, Andy—or me.”

Andy pondered the statement. A look of craft crept into his eye. “What ’ll ye bet he ain’t foolin’ ye?” he said.

Uncle William returned the look with slow dignity. “I don’t speak that way o’ my friends, Andy,” he said gently. “I ’d a heap rather trust ’em and get fooled, than not to trust ’em and hev ’em all right.”

Andy looked guilty. “When ’s it comin’?” he said gruffly.

“It ’s come a’ready,” replied Uncle William; “this mornin’. We ’ve been figgerin’ on a new boat all day, off and on. He ’s goin’ to give me five hunderd to make up for the Jennie.”

“She wa’n’t wuth it!” Andy spoke with conviction. He dropped a jealous eye to the Andrew Halloran rising slowly on the tide.

“No, she wa’n’t wuth more ’n three hunderd, if she was that,” admitted Uncle William. “I ’m goin’ to take the three hunderd outright and borrow the rest. I ’m goin’ to pay you, too, Andy.”

Andy’s face, in the light of the setting sun, grew almost mellow. He turned it slowly. “When you goin’ to pay me, Willum?”

“To-morrow,” answered William, promptly, “or mebbe next day. I reckoned we ’d all go down and see about the boat together.”

Andy looked at him helplessly. “Everything seems kind o’ turnin’ upside down,” he said. He drew a deep breath. “What d’ ye s’pose it is, Willum—about ’em—picters—that makes ’em cost so like the devil?”

Uncle William looked thoughtful. “I dunno,” he said slowly. “I ’ve thought about that, myself. Can’t be the paint nor the canvas.”

“Cheap as dirt,” said Andy.

“Must be the way he does ’em.”

“Just a-settin’ and a-daubin’, and a-settin’ and a-daubin’,” sneered Andrew.

“I dunno ’s I ’d say that, Andy,” said Uncle William, reprovingly. “He sweat and fussed a lot.”

Andy’s eye roamed the landscape. “’T ain’t reasonable,” he said, jealously. “A thing o’t to be wuth more ’n a picter of it. There ’s more to a thing.” He struck the solid ground of fact with relief.

Uncle William’s eye rested on him mildly. “Ye can’t figger it that way, Andy. I ’ve tried it. A shark ’s bigger ’n a halibut, but he ain’t wuth much—’cept for manure.”

“Chowder!” The call rang down from the little house, clear and full.

Both men looked up. “He ’s a-callin’ ye,” said Andrew. There was mingled scorn and respect in the tone.

“You come on up to supper, Andy. We can talk it over whilst we’re eatin’.”

Andy looked down at his clothes. “I ’m all dirt.”

Uncle William surveyed him impartially. “Ye ain’t any dirtier ’n ye al’ays be.”

“I dunno ’s I be,” admitted Andy.

“Well, you come right along, and after supper we ’ll all turn to and help you clean.”

The artist looked up as they entered. “How are you, Andy? The fish are running great to-day.”

Andy grinned feebly. “I ’ve heard about it,” he said. He drew up to the table with a subdued air and took his chowder in gulps, glancing now and then at the smiling face and supple hands on the opposite side of the table. It was a look of awe tinged with incredulity, and a little resentment grazing the edges of it.

title: Uncle William/Chapter 22


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 into my room. While living under his hospitable roof, I never so much as felt that it was not my home, or that my nearest and dearest could have looked after me better than the Dokes.

And it must not be supposed that Mr Doke had not to suffer for according public support to the Indians in their struggle and for harbouring me under his roof. Mr Doke was in charge of a Baptist church, and depended for his livelihood upon a congregation of Europeans, not all of whom entertained liberal views and among whom dislike of the Indians was perhaps as general as among other Europeans. But Mr Doke was unmoved by it. I had discussed this delicate subject with him in the very beginning of our acquaintance. And he said, ‘My dear friend, what do you think of the religion of Jesus? I claim to be a humble follower of Him, who cheerfully mounted the cross for the faith that was in Him, and whose love was as wide as the world. I must take a public part in your struggle if I am at all desirous of representing Christ to the Europeans who, you are afraid, will give me up as punishment for it. And I must not complain if they do thus give me up. My livelihood is indeed derived from them, but you certainly do not think that I am associated with them for living’s sake, or that they are my cherishers. My cherisher is God; they are but the instruments of His Almighty will. It is one of the unwritten conditions of my connection with them, that none of them may interfere with my religious liberty. Please therefore stop worrying on my account. I am taking my place beside you in this struggle not to oblige the Indians but as a matter of duty. The fact, however, is that I have fully discussed this question with my dean. I gently informed him, that if he did not approve of my relations with the Indians, he might permit me to retire and engage another minister instead. But he not only asked me not to trouble myself about it but even spoke some words of encouragement. Again you must not imagine, that all Europeans alike entertain hatred against your people. You can have no idea of the silent sympathy of many with your

title: Page:Satyagraha in South Africa.pdf/192


text:
Uncle William/Chapter 23

HE noon sun shone down upon the harbor. The warmth of early summer was in the air. A little breeze ran through it, ruffling the surface of the water. The artist, from his perch on the rock, looked out over it with kindling eye.

His easel, on the rock before him, had held him all morning. He had been trying to catch the look of coming summer, the crisp, salt tang of the water, and the scudding breeze. When he looked at the canvas, a scowl held his forehead, but when he glanced back at the water, it vanished in swift delight. It was color to dream on, to gloat over—to wait for. Some day it would grow of itself on his palette, and then, before it could slip away, he would catch it. It only needed a stroke—he would wait. His eye wandered to the horizon.

A face appeared over the edge of the cliff and cut off the vision. It was Uncle William, puffing a little and warm. “Hello.” He climbed up and seated himself on the rock, stretching his legs slowly to the sun. “I reckoned I ’d find ye here. Been doin’ her?” He nodded toward the horizon.

The artist looked into the distance with puzzled eyes. “Her?” He put the word doubtingly.

Uncle William glanced at him sharply. “Don’t you see nuthin’ over there?” He waved a huge arm at the horizon.

The artist looked again and shook his head slowly. “I see a color I ’d give my eyes to get.”

Uncle William chuckled a little. “Reckon they ain’t wuth much to ye.” His hand slid into the pocket of his coat and brought out a small spy-glass. He slipped the parts into place and adjusted it to his eye. “There!” He handed it to the young man. “See if that ’ll help ye any.”

The young man took it, looking out over the bay. “Yes, I see her now. She ’s a schooner.” He put down the glass. “Do you mean to say you can see that with the naked eye?”

“Al’ays could.” Uncle William held out his hand again for the glass. “I don’t make her out a schooner, though.”

“She ’s two-masted.”

“Yes.” Uncle William’s eye was glued to the glass. “But she ’s lighter built, trimmer. Some pleasure-craft, like enough. You can see her walk—same as if she was a lady—a-bowin’ and bobbin’.” He laid down the glass, a look of pleasure in his face. “She ’s comin’ right in, whoever she is. She ’ll drop anchor by noon-time.” He glanced at the easel. “You been paintin’?”

“Trying to.”

“’Bout a thousand dollars’ wuth, I s’pose?”

“Not ten cents’ worth.”

“Sho, now! Is that so?” He got up and looked down at the canvas, bending above it like some genial giraffe. He straightened himself, smiling. “’Tis kind o’ dobby,” he admitted. “Mebbe you ’ll do better to-morrow.”

“Maybe. Was there a letter for me?”

The old man shook his head. “Nary letter.—I reckon ’t ain’t time yet,” he added consolingly.

The young man looked gloomily at the water. “She must be ill.”

“Busy, more likely,” said Uncle William.

“It ’s been six weeks.”

“You ’re feelin’ putty well,” said Uncle William.

“I shall go down to-morrow,” said the young man. He had begun to gather up his brushes. The hands that lifted them were firm and strong. A clear color ran beneath the tan of his face.

Uncle William watched him with a little smile. “I dunno ’s I ’d go to-morrow. You could go next week if you don’t hear nuthin’.”

“I shall go to-morrow. I ’ve been a fool to wait so long.”

Uncle William’s eye twinkled. “You ’ve been gettin’ well,” he said.

“I ’m well now.”

“Yes, you ’re— Hello, there ’s Andy.” He leaned over the edge of the cliff. “What d’ ye make her?” he called down.

Andy squinted at the distance. “Coaster,” he announced.

“Come up here and take a look at her.”

Andy climbed slowly up the cliff. “Got your glass?” He took it and fixed the moving speck. “’T ain’t a coaster,” he muttered. “What you folks been doin’ all the mornin’?”

“Well, I ’ve been for the mail and some things, and Mr. Woodworth here he ’s been paintin’.”

Andy cast a side glance at the easel. Then he gazed fixedly at the bay. He seated himself on a rock. “It ’s time for me to go home,” he said.

No one paid any attention to it—Andy least of all. He sat with one leg swinging over the other, chewing a bit of grass and staring gloomily out to sea. The look of baffled humility in his face made it almost tragic. The artist fell to sketching it under cover of his hand. Uncle William studied the approaching boat. “She ’s never been in these waters afore,” he announced. “She ’s comin’ in keerful.” No one replied. Andy stared at fate and the artist worked fast. Uncle William reached out for the glass. He took a long look. He dropped it hastily and glanced at the young man, who was working with serene touch—oblivious to the bay. Uncle William looked through the glass again—a long, slow look. Then he slipped it into his pocket and got up, decision in his face. “Comin’ in to dinner, Andy?”

Andy looked up mildly. “I reckon Harr’et ’s waitin’ for me.” He got slowly to his feet. “You ’ve got another done, I s’pose?” He glanced enviously at the easel.

The artist laughed out. “Want to see it?” He withdrew his hand.

Andy shambled across. He looked down at it casually. A sheepish grin crept into this face, and spread. “You ’ve made me look kind o’ queer, hain’t you?” He gazed, fascinated, at his tragic face.

Uncle William came over and bent to the canvas. He drew out his spectacles and peered at it, almost rubbing the paint with his great nose. “It ’s Andy!” he said with shrewd delight. “It ’s Andy! And it ’s the spittin’ image of him!” He pushed up the glasses, beaming upon Andrew.

Andrew returned the look somberly. “It ’s a good likeness, you think, do you?”

“Fust-rate, Andy, fust-rate; could n’t be better.” Uncle William laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “It looks jest as mean as you do—and jest as good, too, Andy.”

Andy cast a glance at the young man. “How long was ye makin’ it?”

“Half an hour, perhaps; while we ’ve been sitting here.”

Andy sighed heavily. “Wuth more ’n I be, too, I reckon?”

The artist stared at him.

“I mean—” Andy was almost apologetic. “I know they come high—picters. I don’t suppose I could afford to buy it of ye—”

The artist’s face lighted. “Do you want it?”

“Harr’et might,”—cautiously,—“if ’t wa’ n’t [sic] too high. She ’s got an easel for it. She al’ays cal’ated to have me done, and she ’d got as fur as the easel.” His eye returned almost wistfully to the canvas. “Willum says it ’s a good likeness.” He spoke with a kind of dubious pride.

“It is good.” The young man’s eye rested on it affectionately. “It ’s a ripping good sketch—and you may have it and welcome.”

Andy drew back a step. “You mean—”

“I ’ll give it to you, yes.” The artist was holding it out laughingly. “And some day you ’ll sit for me again. That ’ll be pay enough.”

Andy rubbed his hands carefully on the sides of his trousers. He reached them out for the canvas. “It ’s kind o’ wet,” he said. “I ’ll have to hold it keerful.” He took it in both hands, beaming upon it with a kind of somber joy. Carrying it at arm’s-length, he bore it away over the rocks. The artist watched the stern, angular figure loom against the sky and dip down over the cliff out of sight.

“I shall do a sketch of him some day that will make us famous,” he said quietly.

“It ’s time for dinner,” responded Uncle William.

title: Uncle William/Chapter 23


text:
Author:Józef Rufin Wybicki

Works

 * Mazurek Dąbrowskiego - later adopted as the Polish national anthem

title: Author:Józef Rufin Wybicki


text:
Page:Satyagraha in South Africa.pdf/193

 tribulations, and you will agree with me that I must know about it situated as I am.’

After this clear explanation, I never referred to the subject again. And later on when Mr Doke died in the pursuit of his holy calling in Rhodesia, at a time when the Satyagraha struggle was still in progress, the Baptists called a meeting in their church, to which they invited the late Mr Kachhalia and other Indians as well as myself, and which they asked me to address.

About ten days afterwards I had recovered enough strength to move about fairly well, and I then took my leave of this godly family. The parting was a great wrench to me no less than to the Dokes.

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text:
Page:Satyagraha in South Africa.pdf/194

 As the number of Europeans of position, who actively sided with the Indians in their struggle, was fairly large, it will not perhaps, be out of place to introduce them here to the reader all at once, so that when their names occur later on in this narrative, they will not be strange to him, and I shall not have to stop in the midst of the narrative in order to introduce them. The order in which the names have been arranged is not the order of the merit of service rendered, nor that of the public estimation in which the bearers of the names were held. I mention the friends in order of the time when I got acquainted with them and in connection with the various branches of the struggle where they helped the Indians.

The first name is that of Mr Albert West, whose association with the community dated from before the struggle and whose association with me commenced earlier still. When I opened my office in Johannesburg my wife was not with me. The reader will remember that in 1903 I received a cable from South Africa and suddenly left India, expecting to return home within a year. Mr West used to frequent the vegetarian restaurant in Johannesburg where I regularly had my meals both morning and evening, and we thus became acquainted with each other. He was then conducting a printing press in partnership with another European. In 1904 a virulent plague broke out among the Indians in Johannesburg. I was fully engaged in nursing the patients, and my visits to the restaurant became irregular. Even when I went, I went there before the other guests in order to avoid any possible danger from their coming in contact with me. Mr West became anxious when he did not find me there for two days in succession as he had read in the papers that I was

title: Page:Satyagraha in South Africa.pdf/194


text: Jesuit Education/Chapter 3

title: Jesuit Education/Chapter 3


text:
Page:Satyagraha in South Africa.pdf/195

 attending to the plague patients. The third day, at 6 o’clock in the morning I was scarcely ready to go out when Mr West knocked at my door. When I opened it, I saw Mr West with his beaming face.

‘I am so glad to see you,’ he exclaimed. ‘I had been worrying about you, not finding you at the restaurant. Do tell me if I can do anything for you.’

‘Will you nurse the patients?’ I asked jocularly.

‘Why not? I am quite ready.’

Meanwhile I had thought out my plans, and said, ‘No other answer could be expected of you, but there are already many helping with the nursing, and besides, I propose to put you to still harder work. Madanjit is here on plague duty, and there is no one to look after the Indian Opinion press. If you go to Durban and take charge of the press, it will be really a great help. I cannot of course offer you any tempting terms. Ten pounds a month and half the profits if any is all that I can afford.’

‘That is rather a tough job. I must have my partner’s permission, and then there are some dues to be collected. But never mind. Will you wait till evening for my final answer?’

‘Yes, we meet in the park at 6 o’clock.’

So we met. Mr West had obtained his partner’s permission. He entrusted me with the recovery of his dues, and left for Durban by the evening train the next day. In a month I had his report that not only was the press not profitable at all but it was actually a losing concern. There were large arrears to be collected but the books had been badly kept. Even the list of the names and addresses of subscribers was incomplete. There was also mismanagement in other respects. Mr West did not write all this as a matter of complaint. As he did not care for profit, he assured me that he would not give up what he had undertaken, but gave me clearly to understand that the paper would not be paying its way for a long time to come.

Shri Madanjit had come to Johannesburg to canvass subscribers for the paper as well as to confer with me as

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 regards the management of the press. Every month I had to meet a small or large deficit, and I was therefore desirous of having a more definite idea of my possible liabilities. Madanjit had no experience of printing press business and I had been thinking since the beginning, that it would be well to associate a trained hand with him. The plague broke out in the meantime, and as Madanjit was just the man for such a crisis, I put him on to nursing. And I closed with West’s unexpected offer and told him that he was to go not temporarily while the epidemic lasted, but for good. Hence his report on the prospects of the paper just referred to.

The reader knows how at last both the paper and the press were removed to Phoenix, where West drew a monthly allowance of £3 instead of £10 as previously arranged. West was himself fully agreeable to all these changes. I never observed in him the least anxiety as to how he would be able to maintain himself. I recognized in him a deeply religious spirit, although he was not a student of religion. He was a man of perfectly independent temperament. He would say what he thought of all things, and would not hesitate to call a spade a spade. He was quite simple in habits. He was unmarried when we first met, and I know that he lived a life of spotless purity. Some years later he went to England to see his parents and returned a married man. By my advice he brought with him his wife, mother-in-law and unmarried sister, who all lived in extreme simplicity and in every way fraternized with the Indians in Phoenix. Miss Ada West (or Devi Behn as we used to call her) is now 35 years old, is still unmarried and leads a most pious life. She too rendered to the pioneers at Phoenix services of no mean order. At one time or another she looked after the little children, taught them English, cooked in the common kitchen, swept the houses, kept accounts and did composing and other work in the press. Whatever task came to her, she never hesitated in doing it. She is not now in Phoenix, but that is because since my return to India the press has been unable to meet even her small personal

title: Page:Satyagraha in South Africa.pdf/196


text: Uncle William/End Matter

title: Uncle William/End Matter


text:
Uncle William/Chapter 24

NCLE WILLIAM set the table, with one eye on the harbor. As he pottered about with the bread and cheese and salmon, a smile widened his round face.

The artist looked up from the brushes he was cleaning at the door. “You look as happy as if you ’d had a fortune left you,” he said.

“Well, I ’m considabul contented. I gen’ally am, ain’t I?” he added quickly.

“So-so,” admitted the young man. “You ’re shiftless, that ’s what ’s the matter with you.”

Uncle William gave his long, low chuckle. “I guess I be,” he said softly. “I guess I be. But I do take a sight o’ comfort.”

The young man finished the brushes and brought them in, standing them up in a quart cup. “Dinner ready?” he asked.

“I reckon it is.” Uncle William scowled at the lavish table. “’Pears to me there ’s suthin’ I ’ve forgot. Oh, pickles!” He said it triumphantly. “If you would n’t mind takin’ that plate, Mr. Woodworth, and goin’ down cellar?”

“All right.” The young man took the plate and disappeared down the ladder that served as a stairway to the tiny hole beneath.

Uncle William looked cautiously at the trap-door. Then he tiptoed to the window. He drew the glass from his pocket and pointed it at the harbor. The boat had come to anchor just off the island. Uncle William fixed her with his glass. “Uh-huh, jest as I thought,” he said softly.

A step sounded on the ladder and he shut the glass, thrusting it into his pocket and turning a bland, innocent face upon the room. “Does beat all how good pickles be with fish. Set ’em right there, Mr. Woodworth. Now we ’re ready.”

Uncle William’s chair faced the window, and as he ate his eye dropped, now and then, to the bay below. Once it lighted with a swift gleam and he craned his neck a little.

“What is it?” asked the artist, half turning.

“Nuthin’,” said Uncle William, hastily, “nuthin’. ’T ain’t wuth turnin’ your head for. I ’m al’ays seein’ things. Get up in the night, like enough, and wander round the island, jest to see ’em. Go all over the island some nights. You see a good deal that way—fust and last: little critturs runnin’ round, softlike, and the moon and stars—” Uncle William was talking against time. His eye had lost interest in the bay. It seemed to be fixed on the moon and stars. One ear was turned expectantly toward the door.

The artist watched him with an amused smile. He never interrupted one of Uncle William’s monologues.

“I ’ve spent a good deal o’ my life,” went on Uncle William, “lookin’ round at things.”

The gravel crunched outside.

The artist started.

Uncle William turned a little. “Andy, like enough,” he said. He rose and went leisurely toward the door.

The figure of a tall man stood in it, surveying the room.

Uncle William’s smile broke into radiance. It crinkled his eyes and nose and mouth. “I said ’t was you.” He held out a big hand, and drew the man into the room, peering behind him. A little look of disappointment came over his face. “You all alone?” he demanded.

“I am at present,” said the man, smiling. “I left a friend on the beach below. I was n’t sure how I should find you.” His courteous glance took in the young man.

Uncle William turned quickly. “It ’s Mr. Curie,” he said, “the one that bought your picters. And he ’s left somebody—a friend—down below. Mebbe you would n’t mind stepping down and fetchin’ ’em up.”

“Of course.” The young man rose, holding out a hand. “I ’m glad to meet you, sir. I shall be back in a minute. I ’ll bring him right up.” His step rang quick on the rock outside.

The two old men looked at each other.

Uncle William’s face wore its roundest smile. “I would n’t be s’prised if he stayed quite a spell.” He brought a chair and planted it in front of the stranger. “Set down.”

The man sat down, looking around the room. “It is good to be here,” he said.

Uncle William, with a hand on either knee, surveyed him over his spectacles. “I saw ’t was you ’fore you landed.”

The man’s face fell a little. “We wanted to surprise you—”

“You’ve s’prised him all right. He hain’t no idea what he ’s runnin’ to.” He looked toward the door. “I reckon he ’ll stay an hour.”

The man crossed one thin leg over another. “That gives me more time,” he said contentedly.

Uncle William gazed politely. “Was you wantin’ time?” he asked.

The man smiled. “I wanted to see you.”

“You wanted to see me?” Uncle William’s face held pleasure, but not very much curiosity.

The man nodded. “I came on purpose.”

“You did? I thought you come to bring her?” His thumb indicated the beach.

“I wanted to see you, and she wanted to come, so here we are.”

“Here you be,” assented Uncle William. “And I ’m glad to see ye. He was gettin’ middlin’ hard to hold.”

The other man studied his face. “How much will you take for your place?” he asked.

Uncle William looked up. He shook his head slowly. “I won’t take nuthin’.”

The man smiled. “I ’ll give you five thousand for it.”

“You will?” Uncle William’s glance was mild. A smile crept into it. “I wish ’t Andy could hear you say that,” he said; “but I can’t sell.”

“Why not?”

“Where ’d I live?”

The stranger appeared to ponder a minute. “You could keep enough to live on,” he said at last. “I ’d rather have you, in fact.”

“I ’ll give you enough to live on,” said Uncle William. “I like your looks. I ’d like to have you round.”

“That won’t do for me,” said the man.

“’T won’t do for me, either,” said Uncle William.

They confronted each other. The stranger’s eyes dropped first. “I ’ll give you ten thousand,” he said quietly.

“You will?” Uncle William moistened his lips with his tongue. “I ’ll hev to go tell Andy that,” he said.

“You ’ll take it?”

“Lord, no, I could n’t take it! Nor twenty thousand; so don’t you go offerin’ it to me. I should like to tell Andy you was offerin’ it, though.”

The man laughed out. “I was thinking of it,” he said.

Uncle William leaned forward, looking at him. “What are you so set on buyin’ my place for? It ’s a God-forsaken spot—most folks would call it. Andy does.”

“I like it,” said the man.

“So do I,” said Uncle William.

The Frenchman waited a minute. Then he turned a little, looking into Uncle William’s face. “Did you ever see me before?” he asked slowly.

Uncle William returned the look in full measure. “You ain’t forgot I saw you in New York—’long in the spring?”

“I don’t mean that. I mean before—years ago.” The man’s voice was mellow.

Uncle William studied the thin face and looked over the thin legs. “No, I hain’t ever seen ye,” he said. “And yet the’ ’s suthin’ about ye,”—the man uncrossed his legs,—“suthin’ that keeps kind o’ pullin’ on me.” Uncle William rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully. “You ever seen me?” he demanded.

The man’s eyes laughed. “Hundreds of times.”

“You hev?” Uncle William sat up. “Where?”

“Right here.”

“In this house?”

“Well, around here,” said the man, “on these rocks and near by. I lived here once. I dote on these rocks—every one.” He waved a hand at the landscape.

Uncle William fixed him with stern eye. “You hain’t ever lived here,” he said slowly. “You don’t mean to lie.” His gaze grew kindlier. “You ’re jest romancin’.” He brought it out with unction.

The Frenchman stared. Then he laughed out. “Well done! I can’t fight you for that.” He leaned forward. “Who lived this side of Gunnion’s when you were a boy?” he asked.

Uncle William paused. He looked again at the face with its lifted eyebrows and pointed beard. He shook his head. A light grew in his face slowly—he started forward. “Not Bodet?” he said eagerly. “Not little Benjy Bodet?” He stared again.

The man laughed musically. “Right.” He stood up, holding out his hand. “I thought you would know me.”

Uncle William took it slowly. He studied the thin, keen face. “Benjy Bodet,” he said. “I ’d know you—much as you ’ve changed—I ’d know you! Set right down and tell me all about it.”

“All?” said the man. He laughed again, looking contentedly about the room. “It will take some time.”

“You ’ll have to stay quite a while,” said Uncle William.

The man nodded. “I mean to. I ’ve wanted to come back ever since the day we sailed for France.”

“You was twelve year old that summer,” said Uncle William. “Your folks come into property, did n’t they, over there?”

“Yes—on my mother’s side. We took her name. I was sick for months after we got there—homesick, cooped up in rooms.”

“You poor little chap!” Uncle William surveyed him. Affection was in his eyes, and memory. “You was al’ays a kind o’ peaked little thing,” he said reflectively. “You hain’t changed much—when you come to look. Take off your whiskers and slick up your hair and fetch down your eyebrows a little—jest about the same.”

The man laughed out. He swung his eyeglasses boyishly from their chain. “Well, you ’re not.”

“Me?” Uncle William looked down at his bulk. “More of me—bigger a little, sort o’, mebbe.”

The man nodded. “But just the same underneath.”

“Jest the same,” said Uncle William.

The man drew a deep breath. “I ’ve traveled all over the world. There ’s no place like this anywhere.”

“Nowheres,” said Uncle William, fervently.

“I shall spend my days here.”

“Right here,” assented Uncle William.

The man looked at him keenly. “Will you sell?”

Uncle William shook his head. “I ’ll divide.”

The man held out his hand. “It ’s a bargain.”

Uncle William took it and held it fast. His eyes twinkled. “I must go and tell Andy,” he said. “He ’ll be reel pleased.”

“Andy?” The man’s face lighted. “You don’t mean Andy Halloran? Is he here yet?”

“Right on deck; jest slid down the rock here this minute,” said Uncle William.

The man’s eyes twinkled. “Remember the day he took my lobster-pot?”

“Borrowed it,” said Uncle William, dryly.

“Borrowed it,” assented the man. He chuckled a little. “He got his pay.”

Uncle William nodded. “He al’ays does. Andy ’s borrowin’ lobster-pots now—same Andy—gets his pay every time. He ’s great on gettin’ his pay, Andy is.”

“He ought to have made a mean man,” said the other, thoughtfully.

“Well, he hain’t, not so to speak,” said Uncle William, slowly. “There ’s mean spots—rocks; you hev to steer some, but it ’s sandy bottom if you know how to make it. I ’ve anchored on him a good many year now and I never knew him to slip anchor. It may drift a little now and then. Any bottom will drift.”

The man laughed out. “So it will.” He took up his hat. “I must go and look up a place to stay,” he said.

Uncle William looked at him sternly. “Not a step. You don’t stir a step, Benjy Bodet.” He pointed to the red lounge.

The Frenchman paused, irresolute. “I ’m going to stay some time, you know.” He glanced about the little room. “I shall be in the way.”

“You set right down,” said Uncle William.

The man looked at him with raised brows. “You want me?”

“Want you? Why should n’t I want you!” roared Uncle William. “I ’ve been waitin’ for you sixty year and odd. Set down!”

The Frenchman sat down on the red lounge and crossed his legs.

A ball of gray fur descended upon them and fluffed itself, purring.

He peered at it uncertainly. He swung the glasses to place upon his nose, surveying it.

“Now, don’t that show?” demanded Uncle William. “She don’t take to strangers—never. Look at her.” She was kneading her paws in the thin knees, delicately, with treading softness.

The Frenchman’s eyes lighted. “She ’s your cat?”

“She is,” said Uncle William, “and she knows a lot. If she says you ’re goin’ to stay, you ’re goin’ to. You won’t leave here, not till you ’ve built over there on the old cellar place.” He waved his hand toward the horizon. “I ’ll help ye build,” he exclaimed. “They ain’t nuthin’ I like better ’n potterin’ around and tellin’ folks what to do. I can’t fish till the Jennie ’s done and I ’ll turn to and help. The’ ’s a girl I can get to do the work. She ’s a good cook, and she ’ll come down and do for us—be glad to.” He rubbed his hands, beaming upon his guest.

The Frenchman stroked the gray fur with slow touch. “I might take the young man’s place,” he said thoughtfully.

Uncle William paused. “Lord! I ’d clean forgot—I feel about twelve year old,” he added apologetically. “But don’t you worry. This house ’ll stretch. We three ’ll get along all right in it.”

“And Sergia?” said the man, with a smile.

Uncle William rubbed his head. “Um—I’d forgot her, too.”

The man laughed out. “You don’t need to worry. I ’m going to lend them my yacht for a trip.”

“Both on ’em?” asked Uncle William. His puzzled face gazed at the man.

“Yes.”

Uncle William stared. Then the light dawned. “Right off?” he demanded.

“Right off,” said the man. “And when they come back, the house will be ready for them.”

Uncle William glowed. “They goin’ to live with you?”

“I hope so.”

“Well, well!” He rubbed his great knees thoughtfully with either hand. “I would n’t ever ’a’ thought o’ that. And the Lord himself could n’t ’a’ planned anything better ’n that.”

“Thank you,” said the man, smiling.

“Jest the right thing,” went on Uncle William. “And byme-by there ’ll be little toddlers—gettin’ over the rocks between here and there.”

“Yes.”

“And settin’ by the fire, warmin’ their toes and eatin’ tarts jest the way we used to.”

“Just the same,” said the man.

Uncle William mused thoughtfully. The light of flitting memories was in his face.

The man on the lounge watched him through the high-perched glasses. Presently he took off the glasses and rubbed them on his handkerchief. Then he blew his nose.

Uncle William looked up. The smile on his face was beautiful and tender and full of light. “Where be they?” he said.

title: Uncle William/Chapter 24


text:
Uncle William/Chapter 25

HEY were standing by a great rock at the foot of the cliff. The afternoon had slipped away and the harbor was full of changing light, but the artist’s back was turned to it. He was looking into two little round mirrors of light. Perhaps he saw the harbor reflected there. He saw everything else—the whole round world, swinging in space, and life and death. He bent closer to them. “Why did n’t you write?” reproachfully.

“Uncle William would n’t let me.”

“Uncle William!”

She nodded. “He told me not to write. He said you would get well faster if you had something to bother you.” The demure face was full of glinting lights. “He seemed to think that is what we are made for—mostly. He ’s an old dear!” she added.

“He is!” He had gained possession of the quick-moving hand. “I shall keep you now that I have you—”

“Yes.”

“—for that very purpose!”

She smiled quietly. “I ’ll try to live up to it. You took the prize, you know.”

He caged the other hand. “Bother the prize! There ’s only one thing I want.”

Her lip trembled a little.

He watched it jealously. He bent and touched the trembling line. The world was blotted out—sun and bay and wheeling sky. A new world was born—of two souls and swift desire. The heart of the universe opened to them. When they drew apart, her eyes were lighted with tears. He wiped them away slowly, holding the prisoned hands. “We will not wait,” he whispered.

“No,” half breathed.

“In a week?” insistently.

“Yes.”

“To-morrow?” imperiously.

The laughter had come back to her eyes. “To-day!” She freed her hands. “Come.”

He was searching her face. “You mean it?”

“Why not? They will be glad to get rid of us.” She lifted a laughing gesture to the cliff.

“They?”

“William and Benjamin.” She said the names with slow pleasure, smiling at his puzzled face. “It all came out when I told him that I knew you and that Uncle William lived here. He saw in a flash—everything! We started next day.”

He had put an arm about her, guardingly. “We ’ll go hunt up a priest,” he said.

“Now?”

“At once!” decisively. “Uncle William might think I needed more discipline.”

“You ’re looking very well.” She was gazing at him with fond eyes.

“I am well.” He stretched out his arms. “I could conquer the world.”

“We ’ll sail round it.” She nodded to the boat that was anchored off the island. “She is ours—for as long as we want her.”

He stared at the boat and raised a glance to the cliff. “And what will he do?”

“M. Curie? He builds for himself a house, for himself—and for us.” She half chanted the words in sheer delight.

“A house—here—for himself—and for us!” His glance took in the bare, stern grandeur. “It will be very near heaven.”

“Very near. Come, let us go.” They climbed the steep path, with many pauses to look back on the gleaming bay and the boat riding at anchor—the boat that was to carry them away to the ends of the earth.

“We will go to St. Petersburg,” said Sergia, watching the shining light.

“And Italy.”

“And build castles there.”

“Castles! And then we will come home at last—”

“Home!” He said the word under his breath. They had come close to the little house. Through the open door they saw the red room,—half in shadow, half in light,—and in the red room the two old men looking at each other.

Uncle William saw them first and got to his feet, his big face filled with welcome. “Come in, my dear.” He took the girl’s face between his hands, looking down into it with gentle delight. “We ’re glad you ’ve come,” he said slowly. “It was jest about time.” He studied the face. “We want you to feel to home,” he went on. “’Most everybody does feel to home, that comes here.” He bent and kissed the face with rough tenderness.

Juno, from her perch, jumped down and rubbed a sidewise welcome along the gray skirt.

The girl stooped to stroke her. When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears. She brushed them hastily aside.

Uncle William, from his height, looked down on them benignly. “You need n’t mind those, my dear. Good salt water never hurt anybody yet—on sea or land. You do it all you want to.”

The girl laughed out. And the music of her laugh filled the room. The twilight was lighted with it. Down below the tide came in slowly, lapping the stones. Across the harbor a single star shone out.

Uncle William glanced across to it. “Time to light up,” he said. He took down the lantern from its place and lighted it with clumsy, careful fingers, setting it in the window. Then he surveyed the little room and his guests, a look of affection in his big face. “Must be ’most time for supper,” he said.

title: Uncle William/Chapter 25