Kitabı oku: «An Unofficial Patriot», sayfa 14
CHAPTER XXIII
"Through the shadows of the globe we sweep into the younger day."
Tennyson
"When the war is over and the boys all get home," Griffith was fond of saying, as he sat and talked with Katherine, "how good it will seem just to live! I've seen all the suffering and shadows of tragedy I want to see for my whole life. The boys and I will make it up to you, Katherine, and these gray hairs that have come," he touched the wavy hair with tender fingers, "these gray hairs that have come since we went away, shall be only memoranda of the past, not heralds of the future."
It was such infinite relief to have him at home and well that Katherine almost forgot for a time to feel troubled about her sons. News had come daily from the first about Roy; but now that he was so much improved the letters gradually grew a little less frequent. Sometimes Emma West wrote them, and then the letters were very minute indeed, and full of anxious hopefulness. Her praise of Roy's fortitude, her descriptions of his wonderful courage and the insistence with which she assured Katherine that no duty of all their lives – her father's and mother's – had ever been done with half so hearty a good-will as was the nursing of the young Captain, had in it all a spirit of devotion and a guarded tenderness that Katherine thought she understood. Although it is true that no girl is ever quite good enough to marry any mother's son, Katherine tried to adjust herself with reasonable fortitude to the idea of what she thought she saw in the future. Of course it would be many years in the future before the finality must be faced, and Katherine was learning to live in the present and to push aside that which threatened or even promised, as too uncertain to dwell upon. At last short notes, and then longer ones, from Roy himself began to come, and the time seemed not far off when the invalid would arrive. It was wholly unlikely, he said, that he would be fit for service again during the war, unless the war should last much longer than his original term of enlistment and he should enlist again. Of his final recovery he felt certain. The crushed side was doing well, and he would be only slightly lame, the doctor said. To get him out of the army by even so heroic a process gave his mother comfort, and she felt that she could keep him out now even should he recover before his enlistment period were over, she would, if need be, appeal to Mr. Lincoln, and she felt sure, from all Griffith had told her, that the President would give Roy an honorable discharge. Two of her brood were safe again, she argued with herself, and meantime news from Howard and Beverly was frequent and assuring. Life seemed about to drop into less tragic lines in the little household. Griffith fell to humming his favorite hymns once more, and sometimes as he sat on the porch and watched or greeted the passers-by or read his paper, he would stop to tell Katherine stories of his recent adventures, where they did not trench too closely upon the sorrowful memories of the cold faces and bitter feelings of his one-time friends. To no one else did he speak of where he had been. His townsmen knew that he had been away, of course. The Bishop and the college trustees alone knew why. To all others his few months' absence was no more significant than many another trip he had taken since he came among them. The duty he had felt forced to do had been too painful in its nature to make him willing to discuss it even after it was over. Most of those about him were bitter toward the South with a bitterness born of ignorance of conditions and of the times of excitement. To this man, who had passed through the fire before the general conflagration was kindled, there was no bitterness. He understood. His sympathy was still with those who were caught on the under side of the wheel of progress as it had revolved. His beliefs and convictions had long ago traveled with the advance line; but he left all sense of unkindness and revenge to those who were less competent to see the conflict from the side of understanding, and who judged it through the abundance of their ignorance and prejudice. To Griffith it was like watching the tide rise on the sea. It was unavoidable, and those who were caught out beyond the safety line were bound to go down. He did not blame the sea. He only deplored the inevitable loss, the sorrow, the suffering, and the mistakes which made it all possible. That his own part of it was in and of the past lightened his heart. One day as he sat listlessly on the side porch reading his Gazette, he noticed vaguely the half-witted girl, now almost grown to womanhood, circling about the gate and making aimless passes toward the end of the house. He watched her covertly over his paper for a moment and went on humming, "He leadeth me, oh, blessed thought!" The movements of the demented creature seemed to take on more definiteness. Griffith arose and stepped to the end of the porch. There sat aunt Judy, smoking her pipe, and swaying her body in time with his humming, "O words with heavenly comfort fraught! Where'er I go, whate'er I be," – Griffith's step had attracted the old woman and she opened her eyes and looked up at him. "Still 'tis His hand that leadeth me," Griffith finished, smiling at her.
"Lawd amassy, honey, I des been a settin' heah wid my po' ole eyes shet, a listenin' to dat dar song er yoahrn! Hit sholy do seem des lack ole times come back agin t' heah yoh sing dat a way! Hit sholy do! Lawsy, honey, dey want no singin' 'roun' heah whilse you wus gone all dat longtime. Dey want dat! Hit wus des dat gloomysome dat hit seem lack somebody daid all de time. Hit sholy do go good t' set heah an' listen ter yoh singin' agin! Hit sholy do, Mos' Grif." She suddenly looked toward the street. "Mos' Grif, what dat dare fool gal doin'? She des do like dat a way all de time. I hain't nebberseed her when she don't do des dat er way. I ax her wat she want, an I ax er wat ails'er, an' she don't say nothin' 'tall. She des keep on doin' dat way."
"She's afflicted, aunt Judy. She's a poor afflicted creature and – "
"Lawsy, honey, anybody kin see dat she's 'flicted; but wat I axes yoh is, what fer she do dat away at me? She ain' do dat a way at yoh, an' she ain' do dat a way at Mis' Kate – an' she ain' do dat a way at Mis' Marg 'et, needer. Des at me. She tryin' ter witch me. Dat's what!"
Griffith laughed. The point of view was so unexpected and yet so wholly characteristic that it struck him as humorous beyond the average of aunt Judy's mental processes. His laugh rang out loud and clear. His broad shoulders shook. He had grown quite portly, and his face was the picture of health and fine vigor.
"What fer yoh laugh dat a way, Mos' Grif? Dat dar fool gal would a witched me long time ago if hit hadn't a been fer dat." She took from her bosom, where it hung from a string, the rabbit foot: "Dat's so. Des as sho' as yo' bawn, honey; dey ain' no two ways 'bout dat!"
The fascination of the strange black face for this clouded intellect seemed never to lose its power. Whenever and wherever Judy had crossed her path all else faded from the half vacant brain, and such mind and attention as there was, fixed itself upon the old colored woman. Judy had tried every art she possessed to engage the girl in conversation, but with no results. She would continue to circle about and make her passes of indirection with one hand outstretched and the other hung aimlessly pen dent at her side in that helpless fashion which defies simulation. Judy had even tried threatening the girl with her cane; but no threat, no coaxing and no cajolery served to free her from this admirer who seemed transfixed as a bird is fascinated by a snake – with the fascination of perplexity and fear – in so far as the vacant soul could know such lively and definite sensations. Judy had finally – long ago – taken refuge in her rabbit foot, and made up her mind that in competition in the black art, only, was safety. She shook the foot at the girl, who responded in the usual fashion. How long the contest might have lasted it would be difficult to say, had not Griffith walked toward the gate. The instant the bulk of his body hid the old black woman from her eyes, nature did the rest. The vacant mind, no longer stimulated by the sight of the uncanny face, lost all interest and continuity of thought and wandered aimlessly on; forgetful alike of her recent object of attention and equally unguided by future intent, her steps followed each other as a succession of physical movements only, and had no object and no destination. Aimlessly, listlessly, walking; going no one knew where; thinking no one knew what – if, indeed, her poor vague mental operations might be classified as thought – living, no one knew why; following the path of least resistance, as how many of her betters have done and will do to the end of time; looking no farther than the scope of present vision; remembering nothing; learning nothing; an object of pity, of persecution, of fear or of aversion according as she crossed the path of civilized or savage, of intelligent and pitiful or of pitiless ignorance. Griffith watched her as she wove her devious way and wondered where, in the economy of Nature, such as she could find a useful place, and why, in the providence of God, she had been cast adrift to cumber the earth, to suffer, to endure and at last to die – where and why and how? He was not laughing as he returned to the house, and aunt Judy scanned his face narrowly, and then carefully replaced the rabbit foot in its resting-place in her bosom.
"Druv' er off. She know! She know a preacher o' de gospil o' de Lawd Jesus Chris' w'en she see'um! Dey ain't no two ways 'bout dat – 'flicted or no 'flicted. Dat dar gal's 'flicted o' course, but she know 'nuf ter know dat! She been tryin ter witch me, dat she is; but Lawd God A'mighty, she hain't got no sense, ter try ter witch dis house wid Mos' Grif an' dat rabbit foot bofe in hit! Dat dar gal's a plum bawn fool ter try dat kine er tricks. She is dat. She's wus dan 'flicted. She's a plum bawn ejiot ter try dat kine er tricks aroun' dese heah diggins. She is dat! Lawsy, Lawsy, she ain' got no sense worf talkin' 'bout I Mos' Grif an' dat rabbit foot bofe t' match up wid! Lawsy, Lawsy, dat dar pore 'flicted gal's a plum bawn fool!" And poor old aunt Judy, still talking to herself, hobbled into the house, satisfied with her estimate of all parties concerned and content with the world as she found it, so long as that world contained for her both a Mos' Grif and her precious rabbit foot.
White or black, bond or free, war or peace, were all one to old aunt Judy; nothing mattered in all this infinite puzzle called life, if but there remained to her these two strongholds of her faith and her dependence! And who shall say that aunt Judy was not wise in her day and generation? So wise was she that sorrow, anxiety, and care had passed her lightly by to the end that her eighty years sat upon her shoulders like a pleasant mantle, adjusted, comfortable to a summer breeze.
CHAPTER XXIV
"And what are words? How little these the silence of the soul oppress!
Mere froth, – the foam and flower of seas whose hungering waters heave and press Against the planets and the sides of night, – mute, yearning, mystic tides!"
Bulwer.
"I am coming home next month," wrote Roy, "with my wife – the very dearest, sweetest, most lovable and beautiful girl in the whole world. We have decided not to wait, but to be married at once – as soon as she can get ready, and I a bit stronger – and go home for our bridal trip. The winter at home with you will finish up my recovery (and if anything on earth could facilitate it, Emma's nursing and care and love will,) and then if the war is not over, of course I'll go back if I am needed – enlist again. My time is out now; but I hope and believe that the war will be over, or, at least, on its last legs by that time, and then I can begin business at once. My own idea is to take the stock-farm, if father is willing, instead of leaving it to those Martins who don't know the first thing about stock-breeding, and go in for fine horses and a few fine cows, too. I got hold of some books on those subjects here. Emma's father used to have a fancy that way, and I've read up and talked a lot with him on the subject in these four months. Don't you think we could fix the house out there on the place so it would do very well, indeed, for a couple of young folks who won't care so very much about anything at all but each other?"
Griffith stopped reading the letter to laugh. "Tut, tut, tut! Here's more love in a cottage business for you. Well, well, I am surprised, Katherine! I am – "
"I am not. I've been expecting it all along – only – I did hope – I didn't think it would be quite so soon. Roy is only twen – "
"Well, well,'pon my soul, it looks as if you didn't get out of one kind of a frying-pan in this world until you got into another. I was just building all sorts of castles about the future and – and to tell the mortal truth, Katherine, I never once thought of making a place for a daughter-in-law! Never once! Why – "
There was a long pause. Griffith finished the letter in silence and handed it to his wife. As she read – she began back at the beginning – he gazed straight before him with unseeing eyes and a low hum ran along with unsteady and broken measure. "'How tedious – mmmm – mm – the hours, Mmmmm – no longer mmm mm; Sweet pros – mmm, swee – et mmm mm mm, mmmm, Ha – ave all mm mm mm mm to me.' But we'll have to expand the castle, Katherine – build on an addition for a daughter-in-law," he said as if there had been no break in the conversation, albeit almost half an hour had passed during which each had been wrapped in thought, and the singing – if Griffith's natural state of vocalization may be called by that name – was wholly unnoticed by both.
"Yes," said Katherine in a tired voice; "yes, but I had hoped for a reunion of – of just ourselves first; but – but – we will try to feel that she is one of ourselves – and surely we ought to be very grateful for the way they have nursed Roy and – His letter – " Katherine fell to discussing his letter and the new plans and needs, and how short a time it would be until they would come.
Little Margaret hailed with delight the idea of a new sister. They all remembered the pretty face of the school-girl Emma. Letters of congratulation and welcome were written and posted, and it seemed to Katherine that nothing in the whole world could ever either surprise or startle her any more. She felt sure that whatever should come to her in the future would find her ready. She would take the outstretched hand of any new experience and say, "I was expecting you." Her powers seemed to her to have taken up their position upon a level surface and to have lost all ability to rise or fall. The fires had burned too close to have left material to ever flare up again. There was nothing left, she thought, to kindle a sudden or brilliant blaze. She had accepted the thought of a new daughter with a placidity which shocked herself, when she thought of it, until she analyzed her sensations or her lack of them.
The month passed. When the happy young creatures came, the very beauty of their faces and forms about the house gave warmth and color. Roy was still limping a little and his lung needed care, but he was as handsome as a young fellow could be, and as proud and bright in his new happiness as if the earth were his. "Is she not beautiful?" he would ask twenty-times a day, holding the laughing young wife at arm's length. "Isn't she beautiful, father?" and Griffith would pretend to turn critical eyes upon her and tease the son with an assumption that it was necessary to look for a beauty which was both rare and graciously, brilliantly endowed.
"Well, let me see! L-e-t – me s-e-e! Turn around, daughter – No, not so far – M-mm. Well – it – seems – to – me – she is r-a-t-h-e-r fair!" and Griffith's eyes would twinkle with pleasure when Emma tweaked his ears or drowned his pretense in a dash of music. The old piano gave place to a new one, and the home was once more filled with laughter and music and a happiness that not even the shadow cast by the thought of the two absent ones could make dark enough to veil the spirits of the two who had come. With the others it had also its infection. So true is it that after long and terrible strains we hail partial relief with such peans of joy that the shadows that remain seem only to temper the light that has burst upon our long darkened vision and to render us only the better able to bear the relief. Griffith sang the old hymns daily now, and even essayed to add his uncertain voice to the gay music that Emma and Roy flung forth.
"And the nights shall be filled with music,
And the thoughts that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away."
Emma's voice rang out clear and sweet, and it seemed to Katherine that, after all, it was very delightful to have a new daughter like this one, and if Roy must marry, why —
Good news continued to come from the front. Howard and Beverly were well and unhurt. In their different ways they wrote cheerful and cheering letters. Emma grew more radiant every day as she watched the returning color come to Roy's cheeks, and one day Griffith took her by both arms as she was flashing past him. He held her at arm's length and laughed.
"Trying to see if I'm pretty, father?" she said saucily, lifting her mouth for a kiss.
"Pretty! pretty! Why, daughter of Babylon, the lilies of the field are not half so lovely – and Solomon, in all his glory – " He stepped back and folded his arms. Emma flung both little hands up to his cheeks in glee. "Kiss me! oh, you dear old father! Solomon in all his glory never knew you – didn't have you for a father – and so that is where I have got the best of Solomon! Poor old Solomon, I wouldn't trade with him!" She ran laughing down the hall, and Katherine smiled up at her husband.
"What a dear girl she is! I am so glad for Roy – for all of us;" she said. "It is easy and a pleasure to build on an addition to our air-castles for her."
Griffith bent over to kiss her. "Yes, God has been very good to us all the days of our lives, Katherine. The struggles have all been outside of the most sacred – of – " He hesitated as he recalled some of the struggles, and touched his lips to her hair where the gray was growing distinct. "But all those seem to be about over, now, and for us the dawn is here and the brilliant day is only just ahead. Ah, little wife, the sun will rise for us to-morrow on a day which shall have no conflict of soul before us. How happy we shall be when the other boys get home! It makes me feel young again only to think of it I I am going over to the College now. A business meeting of the trustees." He smiled back at her and went humming down the lawn: "Joy to the world, the Lord is come!"
Two hours later in the twilight, there was a confused scuffle of feet and babble of muffled voices on the front porch. Katherine, ever on the alert for news from her absent sons, opened the door. A dark, repellent face – the face of an ascetic, cast in the mold of sorrow and soured by the action of time, was before her. She recognized the pastor of the church near by. "Sister Davenport," he said, "you had better step back. We have sad news. We – He is dead."
"Which one? Which one?" cried Katherine, "Howard or Beverly?" She was struggling to push by them out on to the porch. Roy rushed from the hallway and past the group.
"Great God! It is father! It is father!" he cried, and turned to shield his mother from the sight. "Come back! Come back!" he said grasping her by the waist and trying to force her into a chair. He had, as we all have at such times, a vague idea of somehow saving her by gaining time. The little group was staggering into the room and its load was laid upon the couch. Griffith Davenport was dead. The smile on the face was there still, but the poor brave heart would beat no more forever.
"Heart failure," some one said, "in the trustees' room."
"In the midst of life we are in death – " began the stem-faced ascetic as he took his place near Katherine. Roy had pushed her into a chair and stood holding her about the shoulders. Emma knelt before her with streaming eyes, looking into the set face. Little Margaret was weeping with fear. She had never before seen the face of death. She did not understand. She only knew that some terrible blow had fallen, and she clung to aunt Judy and wept.
"In the midst of life we are in death. The Lord giveth, and – "
"Oh, go away, go away!" moaned Katherine, as the monotonous voice and the tall form of the clergyman forced itself into her consciousness again. "Go away and leave me with my dead!" She was dry-eyed and staring. She sat like one in a dream. She had not reckoned upon this when she had felt that she was ready for anything that should come – anything that could come to her in the future. She was too dazed to grasp or adjust anything now. She only knew that she must be alone. "Go away! go away," she said looking up at Roy. He motioned the men and the minister out and closed and locked the door. When he returned to his mother's side her eyes were shut and her head was thrown back against the chair. There were no tears. He beckoned Judy to bring little Margaret, and he took his mother's arms and put them about the child, and his own were around both. His own eyes were streaming but hers were dry still.
"Mother," he said softly, "mother," She did not answer. Presently she opened her eyes and they fell upon the child in her arms.
"Poor fatherless child! Poor fatherless child!" she moaned, and the tears gushed forth, but her arms dropped slowly from Margaret's form, and she did not seem to want the child there. The streaming eyes traveled toward the couch and its silent occupant whose trials and struggles were indeed over at last. Oh, the irony of fate! No conflict of soul was before him, the dawn he had heralded – the brilliant day was come, was it not? Who was there to say? He was out of bondage at last – bondage to a conscience and a condition that tortured his brave, sensitive soul. The end of the sacrifice had come, but for what? To Katherine, as she gazed at him lying there in the gloom, it was dead sea-fruit indeed. She could not think. She only sat and stared, and was conscious of the dull dead pain – the worthlessness of all things.
Roy bent down and stroked her hair and kissed her. She did not seem to know. "Shall we go away, too? All of us, mother? Would you rather be alone – with father?"
"Yes," she said feebly. "I will be alone always, alone now, always alone – alone!"
"No, no, mother, you will have all of us – all – all – but him. We will – "
"Go away! go away, for a while," she said, and flung herself on her knees beside the couch. "Oh, Griffith, Griffith! What was it all for? All our suffering and trials and hopes and life? What was it all for at last?" she moaned with her arms about his lifeless form. "What did it all mean? What was it all for, if this is the end? Oh, Griffith, Griffith! what was the use? What was the use – with this for the end! I felt so safe about you, darling, now that you were here! I did not even think of you! I did not fear it was you! Oh, Griffith, Griffith! this is the end of all things! This is the end! This is the end! I do not care what else comes – I do not care – I do not care! What is a country? What are sons to me now? I do not care! I do not care! This is the end!"
Roy had heard her voice and her sobs. He opened the door softly and saw her with her head on the breast of her dead and the long sobbing sighs coming with the silences between.
He closed the door noiselessly again, and took his young wife in his arms. His voice was choked and broken.
"Emma, my darling, perhaps if you were to go to her – perhaps she would know that you can understand – perhaps you could comfort her, if – "
"No, no, Roy, she would hate me if I were to go in there now – I who have you! I who am so happy and so blest! I know! I know, darling. Let her alone – for awhile. Oh, Roy. If it were you! If – if – it were I in there, with – with you dead! Oh, Roy!"
They clung to each other in silence. Both understood. At last he said, holding his wife to his heaving breast: "And we cannot help her! Not even God can help her now – if there be a God – not even He can help her now! He would be too late to undo His own cruelty! Ah, love and death! Love and death! how could a good God make both!"
The young wife shuddered and was silent. Her faith could not compass that situation. Love was too new and too strong. Doubt entered the door Love had swung open for these two, and took up his seat at their fireside forever.
An hour later, as they talked in whispers, Roy said: "To think that we all escaped in battle – and he from worse danger – and now!"
"Mos' Roy, honey, I wisht yoh'd take dis heah rabbit foot in dar t' Mis' Kate! Lawsy, Mos' Roy, she gwine ter go outen her mine if she don' look out. Aunt Judy don' need dis heah foot lack what Mis' Kate do now, honey. You des go in dar an' des kinder put hit inter Mis' Kate's pocket er somewheres. Hit ain't gwine ter do her no harhm – an' mebby hit mout do'er some kine er good, kase I gwine ter gib hit to her tor keep fer all de time now."
Roy took the proffered gift quite gravely. "Thank you, aunt Judy, you were always good to us – always. I will take it in there after a while;" he said, and the heroic old soul hobbled away, happy in her supreme sacrifice.
It was night… To Katherine it seemed that the darkness must be eternal. Yet the sun rose on the morrow, and Life took up its threads and wove on another loom.
