“I don’t think so,” I said surlily. “She’s had pneumonia, of course, and was all worn out.”
Bee looked at Livy musingly. Livy’s face was tranquil, and for some reason I felt that she had shut a door and was hidden behind it, even from me. Despite her forthrightness, Livy had never had a defense against Bee’s sweet viciousness.
“She looks resigned,” went on Bee with a light laugh. “Resigned to marriage, Livy dear? Ah, never be resigned. There’s always hope, you know,” and she laughed trillingly. She reached over and patted Livy’s hand; though she touched it, I knew it was cold as though I myself had touched it, and I was vaguely frightened.
“You talk nonsense,” I said roughly.
Bee widened her russet eyes at me innocently. “Dear me, aren’t we brusque! I’m only teasing Livy a little. You never did have much sense of humor, Jim.” I myself had always suspected this uneasily. She could always find the chink in the armor. But my anger was devoured in my astonishment at the sight of Dan’s face. It was a dull and infuriated red.
I knew there were undercurrents here I did not understand, and my anger rose. For a long moment there was a distinctly heavy silence.
During all this time we had not mentioned our long absence from each other. We had not spoken of Dan’s marriage; we had talked like casual strangers, warily avoiding all dangerous pits of conversation. But I felt that we were all watching each other, each with a different reaction.
Bee now indicated Dan with an airy wave of her white-gloved hand.
“Haven’t I improved him, civilized him?” she demanded playfully. “Come, now, Livy, would you have recognized him?”
Livy looked at Dan straightly, and he looked at her. In his gaze was something sad and understanding beyond my comprehension, but there was no pity. It were as though he knew he could not insult her with pity. Again I was conscious of undercurrents, and I moved restively in my chair.
“Dan looks very nice,” said Livy tranquilly, and she smiled with gentleness. “No, I would hardly have recognized him.” And now she turned her quiet eyes upon Beatrice, who, to my increasing bewilderment, colored. Her lips tightened shrewishly, and she breathed quickly as though she were restraining herself.
“Yes, I’ve improved him,” she said carelessly, and when she smiled at her husband her eyes sparkled humorously. He returned her look, and then I saw something in his face that horrified me. It was hate, not a hot and furious hate, but a calm and unashamed hate, steady and unmoved. “He looks almost as if he’s forgotten his ‘fruitful grape,’ doesn’t he?” Bee went on, twirling her shut parasol under her hand. She glanced at us archly. “Surely you haven’t forgotten Dan’s ‘fruitful grape’? Don’t you remember how he quoted it to us a long time ago, when we rode out on our bicycles to the hills?”
“What are you talking about?” asked Dan in a low voice. “Don’t you know you are boring them?”
“Boring them?” Beatrice lifted hurt and astonished eyebrows, and glanced pleadingly from Livy to me. “Am I boring you, dears?”
Livy murmured deprecatingly, but she looked a little sick, and I was alarmed.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t bore anyone for the world,” said Bee animatedly. “Dan is always so careful about conversation. He doesn’t like nonsense.” She smiled at us girlishly.
“But I like nonsense. It’s such an airy, pretty thing, like shuttlecocks dancing in the sunlight.”
“There are hard blows under the shuttlecocks,” said Livy. Her voice was soft, but it seemed to have a bell-like ring like a warning.
Bee shrugged. “You are all so difficult. I’m afraid there’s not a drop of humor in any of you. Well. I wanted you both to see Dan again. Of course, I know with your wedding, and Livy’s illness, and everything, you have been very busy. I must admit that I wanted to show Dan off. I’m so proud of him,” and she smiled humorously at her husband. “And he does everything to please me. He even gave up his horrid little farm, with that old witch Martha, for me, and let me persuade him to move into town.”
Dan’s face was without expression. I made a valiant attempt to wrest the conversation from the woman.
“Well,” I said cheerily, “everything’s going fine, I see. And we’re coming to the twentieth century. Think of that! Sometimes I can—I can almost hear it, like great wheels rumbling. I’d like to bet anything that we’ll see mighty changes in the twentieth century. Peace and glory and wonders and marvels such as the world has never seen before. Think of it! Our children will have something to live for in that century, I can tell you!”
Bee gazed at me blandly. “Peace? I think not. A bigger world, more hate and bigger wars. It wouldn’t surprise me to see us wipe each other out. Glory? You can’t put glory into dark minds, and human nature never changes. Wonders and marvels? For what purpose? To be swallowed up in wars and hate and stupidity?”
“I don’t agree with you,” I said angrily. “We’ll have security we never had before. Our children will be secure.”
“Secure?” Dan’s quiet voice broke into the conversation. “Yes, perhaps it’s our duty to make the world secure for our children.”
“Secure?” asked Livy clearly. “No, I would not want my children to live secure lives. I think security is something like dying; wasn’t it Homer who said that the arts die in peace? If I have children, I want them to live splendidly. You can’t live splendidly in security; it chokes you.”
I was irritated. During the past year Livy had seemed to forget her old “notions” which had occasionally annoyed the older people in South Kenton. But my irritation grew less as I saw how her eyes were sparkling with their old resolution and courage, and how her lips had suddenly become warm and rich again. She was not speaking to me; she was speaking to Dan Hendricks, and as he studied her gravely a warmth came into his face also, a slow and kindled animation that I had not seen for a long time. But he said nothing.
Beatrice laughed lightly. “Dear me, what a radical! I thought you had become such a sedate puss this last year or two, Livy.” She touched her lips with her handkerchief and looked over it at us merrily. But the glow left Livy’s face as Beatrice spoke, and she looked down at her clasped hands. What hideous enchantment did this woman have, that her lightest words seemed to cast a shell of stone over everything that was moving and living? A certain rigidity passed over Dan, also. I stared from one to the other, increasingly annoyed and puzzled. Beatrice turned to me. She spoke casually, but in the clear brown of her small eyes there lingered and danced the old malice and cruelty.
“I hear marvelous reports about you, Jim. You seem to have settled down comfortably in your papa’s shoes. Well, they are well-lined and very warm, I have no doubt. Fortunate young man! You, at least, prefer security to danger, don’t you? The fireside, while the battle goes on outside. Locked shutters, while the mob passes. High walls shutting out the war. I think you are very wise. Politicians seem alarmed at the trend from the farms and the farm towns to the cities of ambitious young men and women. I think they would be pleased to see you settling down so snugly, without any desire for Livy’s fine danger, and getting gray and stout like your papa, and rich, taking care of all of us.”
She regarded me with hypocritical admiration. I found it suddenly difficult to swallow. As though she had been an evil witch, she conjured before me with consummate and diabolical skill all the dreams I had had when I had been a boy at school—all the beautiful and opulent dreams that were ending here in this quiet little town and dying of inertia. She must have remembered the few juvenile things I had said. She never forgot. I was conscious of overwhelming misery and pale despair. While I floundered about in the welter of my painful thoughts she continued to regard me with smiling admiration, but in her smile was that wicked glee she always had when she had hurt someone bitterly. A sodden silence seemed to fall upon all of us except Beatrice, who, after waiting for my reply which did not come, glanced at Livy and Dan with the utmost good humor. In that silence the leaves of the trees be
gan to lift and shiver like sharp dark shadows against the intense and shining blue of the sky, and a dimness fell over the bright garden.
I cleared my throat. I had an odd notion that if I did not speak, did not stir her other victims to life again, we would sit there forever, petrified by a sinister enchantment. I turned to Dan.
“Are you selling your farm, Dan?”
He stirred with visible effort and glanced at me almost listlessly.
“No. I’m renting it to old Martha’s grandson and his wife. She’s living with them out there.” He fixed his eyes on mine, and we both remembered the time I had been there, and my ignominious dismissal. I felt myself coloring. But in his expression was not apology nor expression of any kind. I wondered vaguely if he thought we were enemies; there was something inimical in the set line of his lips. I looked from him at last to Beatrice, so graceful and gay, and watching, always watching. It seemed to me like a dream, without explanation and full of torment.
Beatrice laughed a little, and said to Livy: “Dan and I went to see Mama two weeks ago. Dear, silly old thing, to make such a fuss about our wedding! Well, she came to the door, and tried to close it again when she saw us, but Dan held it open with his hand, and said: ‘I want to come in, Sarah.’ And would you believe it?” Her roving eye flicked each of us like a red-hot lash. “She let us in! And cried, poor old darling, looking so broken and old and faded! But Dan always did have a way with Mama. Sometimes, jealous little goose that I am, I thought they were both fonder of each other than they were of me! Well, Mama wouldn’t let me kiss her for awhile, and kept staring at us both so mournfully, that I thought I would break down myself. And then she said to me: ‘Bee, you’ll be good to Dan, won’t you?’ I was so surprised! And after that, she and I just cried together like silly babies, and I knew I was forgiven. She has been to see us several times since then, and we are to have Sunday dinner with her. I asked her to live with us, but she won’t. Likes her silly little old house too well, I suspect, but Mama always did have queer tastes. She never liked grand furniture and plenty of big fires and damask drapes. Sometimes I wonder if she really had much taste. I always felt pained at home.”
“Your mother had more than good taste,” said Livy quietly. “She is a good woman. She would never hurt anything or anyone.” She looked directly at Bee, who laughed again, her light and affected laugh.
“Sometimes I think the desire not to hurt anything is just cowardice,” she said smilingly. “Life is harsh and raw; you eat or be eaten. I think it is much nicer to eat.”
“Even at another’s expense,” I said hoarsely.
Bee nodded delightedly. “Why not? Life for the eater is very interesting. I would rather be a lion than a rabbit. I would rather hunt than be hunted. You have only those two choices.” She stared, at me with her light-filled eyes, and I had the eerie sensation that behind those eyes was nothing but a devouring hunger and lust and hate, an elemental power that flowed directly from elemental Nature, who has no conscience and no compassions. That is why I think, even now, that Beatrice was more alive and vital than any of us; she was atavastic, and we were attenuated by the consciences and the ideals of an artificial civilization. A host of platitudes blew about in my mind like scraps of silly paper in a high wind, but I dared not speak them for fear of her ridicule. I knew she was wrong, that natures like hers are the deadly foes of all nobilities and human grandeurs, but they are alive, more vital than those nobilities and grandeurs. And she gleefully watched me suffer, seeming to know everything that went on in my mind, knowing she had defeated me.
“Why so glum, Jim?” she purred. “Have I hurt your feelings? I hope not. I’m just teasing you. I used to tease you a long time ago, and you used to get glum, just the way you are doing now. Don’t be glum; it’s the first sign of fatness, and dear me! aren’t you getting a little stout already? Oh,” she continued animatedly. “I heard about that free little hospital you are trying to interest us all in, where children can get treatment and care, and others who can’t pay won’t have to die because they are afraid they can’t pay their bills. I think that is just splendid. So Christian and noble—and everything. You must let us contribute too. We would feel hurt if we were left out.”
The little hospital-clinic had been my dearest hope and dream for the past few months, inspired by Livy. I can say honestly, even now, that I had no “noble” motive, or ulterior object, in planning for and speaking of it to my friends, but suddenly it seemed to me that Beatrice had stirred up all sorts of base motives in my mind, was making me feel small and mean and crafty, a petty philanthropist making a bid for virtuous applause and approval. My heart began to pound.
“You can contribute a thousand dollars,” I said, staring at her. I was pleased at the startled expression in her narrowed eyes. “Everyone else is giving. Of course, it isn’t settled yet, not even the site decided on. We’re going to have a meeting next Monday. I hope both of you will be there.”
I was so intent in my effort to beat her down, that when Dan spoke, though very quietly, I was startled.
“If you want, you can have the land Billy’s old store stands on. The store is empty; there is an acre behind it. I think that would be a good location, right in the center of town.”
“But Dan,” said Beatrice quickly, with a sharp flush on her cheeks, “Mr. Ezra King told you that William Goodrich from Ripley would give you a good price for that store and the land.” Her mouth worked with tense anger and greed, though her voice was ever so soft. Dan did not look at her; he continued to regard me quietly.
“The land’s yours whenever you want it,” he repeated. “For nothing.”
I thanked him confusedly. Beatrice had fallen silent, but her eyes glittered. Before any of us could speak again, the garden gate clicked, and old Mortimer’s lank and blowing figure, like that of an ancient scarecrow, came across the grass to us. He carried his hat in his hand, and the summer wind tossed the silvery wisps of his hair about his pale skull. The sun was in his eyes and he did not see us distinctly until he was almost up to us. Then he started visibly. He looked slowly around our little circle, and deep lines fell about his mouth. I pulled a chair forward for him. Beatrice seemed to forget her rage; she began to fan herself gently with her perfumed handkerchief, and regarded Mortimer with a smile, the old malice lighting up her face again. She shook her finger archly at him.
“Ah, you bad old thing! You haven’t been to see us at all. Are you a hermit these days?”
Mortimer glanced heavily at Dan, who was again regarding his feet, then glanced back at Beatrice.
“Yes, I’m a hermit, except for my friends,” he said in his dry and rustling voice.
“Then, you mustn’t be a hermit with us,” exclaimed Beatrice. “Dan often speaks of you. You hurt us badly. Only last night I said to him: ‘I wonder why our dear old poet never comes to see us?’ Why, I can remember whole lines of your ‘Man—Crucified.’ I really think that was one of the most wonderful poems in the world. So beautiful and sublime. You ought to be world-famous now, a sort of poet laureate. The world is so unappreciative.”
I writhed internally. Dan’s face had become a dull red, and Livy had turned her head aside. Mortimer said nothing; he merely regarded Beatrice intently, his withered hands swinging between his knees. Beatrice beamed on him fondly, turning her knife in the poor old wretch whom none of us could rescue without betraying to her that we recognized her viciousness.
“The world is so unappreciative of real worth,” she went on. “It gives fame and fortune to everything trashy, and never remembers the truly great until after their death. It’s poor consolation for you, however, isn’t it, Mr. Rugby?”
The poor, defeated starer at the brilliant peak of Parnassus still said nothing. He continued to regard Beatrice without expression. Once he drew his hand slowly over his face. Dan stood up abruptly. He glanced at his heavy gold watch.
“It’s time to go,” he said rudely. Beatrice rose, and I stood up. But old Mortimer di
d not stir. He looked stricken.
“Now, you must all come to see us soon, all of you. We haven’t measles, you know,” said Beatrice, glancing brightly at all of us. She pulled on her gloves. “Livy, you mustn’t be a hermit, too. Remember, you are my dearest friend. And Jim, here, and Dan, always used to be together. Marriage doesn’t change anything at all.”
Dan did not even say goodbye; he and Beatrice went away together across the sun-bright grass, she swaying gracefully. We could hear her light hum. There was a slight stoop to Dan’s shoulders. They went out the gate, and at that moment my father and mother drove up after a day’s shopping. My mother leaned out of the carriage to kiss Beatrice warmly, and shake her head at Dan. They were too far away for us to hear what they said, but we heard Bee’s gay laugh, and my father’s lusty rumble.
As for us, it seemed that something unclean had left us, but left us with a sick odor in our nostrils. Mortimer was the first to speak.
“You know, of course, Jim, that Dan loves Sarah Faire, don’t you?”
When I looked at Livy I saw by her expression that this was no news to her. I stood up, fuming, and thrust my hands in my pockets.
“Why, that’s disgusting!” I exclaimed. Mortimer shrugged.
“Why? I don’t think so. It answers all the questions you ever asked about Dan’s marriage, I think. It happens to be true, too.”
Chapter Sixteen
The forgiving ardor South Kenton had extended to Dan Hendricks began to cool, for though he continued to be courteous and properly silent on forbidden topics, he never allowed anyone to approach him. South Kenton resented this hard reserve. Dan was showing no real appreciation of South Kenton’s magnanimity. He did not seem to remember that he had once been an outcast. He had no becoming humility and gratitude. He went wherever Beatrice went, but no one could remember afterwards what he had said. He did nothing outrageous, but public opinion turned against him. Openly expressed pity for Bee was frequent. The older people loved her more than ever.