After awhile I asked him about poor Billy. Immediately the new light and pleasure went out of his face. It looked suddenly pale and sick, as though he had felt a stab of great pain. Billy had been poorly a long time before he died, but he would not let Dan call Dr. Marcy, my father. He didn’t hold with doctors; all they did was poke around and look wise, not knowing a blame thing, and then they sent a bill and felt their duty done. No, he didn’t want a doctor. A man knew when he was going, and having doctors fussing around only gave a man a headache when they didn’t make him laugh.
“He was so—good to me, Jim,” said Dan in a low voice, as though he was thinking aloud. “He taught me things. He talked about courage a lot. He knew what it was. He suffered so, but never whined or said anything about how he suffered. He said once: ‘Have guts, Dan. Have guts and nothing can hurt you. Devils or men, they can’t touch you, if you look ’em in the face straight, like a man. They might hurt your pore, miserable flesh, but they can’t hurt you. Only yourself can hurt you by lettin’ down, and havin’ no guts, and lettin’ them get at you that way.’ Oh, he taught me lots. It—was like opening my eyes. He didn’t believe in God, the way church folks do. He made fun of hymnbooks and sermons and preachers. Said they were just a loud noise in the presence of the Lord. Sort of deafened people to the voice of God. When he was dying, and Parson Bingham came to see him, Billy sat right up in bed and swore and shouted and ordered him out of the house. Said the parson made a stink in a room that was all full of flowers that only Billy could see. He hated almost everyone in this town. No, not hated them; he couldn’t hate anyone. But they didn’t matter to him He was awful kind to everyone, though, and that’s why they came to sit in the store and gossip. It was like coming to a peaceful place, to come to Billy. And when he was dying, he talked to me. I couldn’t stand it, Jim. But after he talked to me, I was glad he was going. It was like hearing someone talk of going home after they had been away a long time. I couldn’t even be sorry when he died, though it’s been mighty lonesome.” He paused. “But sometimes. I have a feeling he’s come back to see me. I feel if I look around quick I’ll see him, but if I see him he won’t come again. So I just sit, and talk to him in my mind, and somehow, everything seems right again. I can just feel him, warm and close, with his old walrus mustache, and spitting in the fireplace, and rubbing his socks together as he used to do, warming his feet.”
“Dan,” I said awkwardly, “he must have thought a lot of you to leave you everything the way he did. Why don’t you leave here, take what you have, and start up somewheres else? This—this town doesn’t—I mean, I think you’d do better some other place.” I could not bring myself to speak of the animosity against him in South Kenton, but he knew what I meant.
“Where could I go?” he asked simply, looking at me with candid and mournful eyes. “I don’t know any other place. I couldn’t get used to it. Besides, people are pretty much the same wherever you go. You can’t get away—from what they think about you. And Billy lived here. I want to be where he was. Then I like South Kenton. Yes, I really like it. It’s familiar to me, the town and the country, and I like the hills. I like familiar places; I couldn’t get used to a strange place. It would take me years. It would just be a waste of time, getting adjusted, getting accustomed to strange faces and houses and work. I don’t want to take that time up. Here, everything is known to me, and I don’t have to think about it. And then,” he paused a moment, and a deep wash of color rose to his forehead, “I wouldn’t want to go, for another reason.”
All I could think of was that he had fallen in love with some girl. Beatrice Faire? I sucked in my lips at the thought. I said nothing, and gulped my coffee.
“Well, but how is business?” I said at last.
He shrugged. “I make expenses,” he replied. “That’s all. Just expenses. But it’s enough. I don’t want any more. It seems foolish to me to want more. A waste of time. I couldn’t eat any more than I do, or wear any more. I’ve got all the books I want, and newspapers, and a place to sleep, warm and comfortable, and I’m independent, and I have a few friends. What more does anyone want? Oh, I know you’ll think I have no ambitions, the way Bee does. But ambition seems to me the consolation and hope of small minds. Get somewhere? Why? You can’t leave the earth until you die, and where else in the world would you get anywhere? I don’t, want the admiration and worship of little people. Perhaps I could make a lot of money somewhere, and then people would respect me. But I don’t want their respect. I’d know what it was founded on.”
I was silent. I felt emptied and depressed, somehow deprived and resentful. He saw that. He touched my hand and smiled at me humorously.
“With you, Jim, it’s different. You’re going to be a doctor. You can do things for folks, relieve their suffering, prolong their lives—for what they’re worth. Doing things for others, helping them, seems to me the only thing to be ambitious for. But, what could I do? All I could do would be to do something for myself, and I don’t want any more than I have. I’ve got lots; I don’t think you’d understand that, Jim.”
Frankly, I did not, then. I do now. Dan is dead but I’d like to tell him that I understand. It took me a long time.
We talked of other things that night. He listened to my prattlings with grave affection and attention, like an older brother listening to a boy. And I felt in him a deep peace and tranquility that nothing could shake, nothing could touch. He was removed. He would always be removed.
When I left him, I did not feel anger against South Kenton any longer. South Kenton’s meanness was like an accolade to Dan Hendricks, an explanation of him.
Chapter Seven
I had almost reached the dark street when I bumped squarely into a humped and spindling figure, very tall, moving with a sort of wavering furtiveness. We both exclaimed irritably. The street light was on my face, and the figure cried: “Why, it’s Jim Marcy!”
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Rugby. Yes, it’s Jim. I’ve just been to see Dan. Are you going in, too?”
He hesitated. I could not see him very well. I saw him drawing his hand over his face with the old familiar gesture. He hummed a moment or two. The dim lamp- fight made little glistens on his gray head under the shabby black hat. He gave me the impression of being very fragile and old and tired. I could hardly believe that this old man, cowed at last by life, could be the terrible schoolmaster of my school days.
“Um. Yes, thought I’d drop in a minute. Want to ask Dan something,” he mumbled. “Yes, Jack said he went to your party the other night. Thought perhaps you’d remember your old teacher, but you didn’t. Thought you might come in to see me.”
I was embarrassed. I could not tell him that I had not given him a thought for years. But he was obviously ill at ease, and was talking absently, without really thinking of me, so I forgot my embarrassment.
“Oh, I’ll come in, Mr. Rugby. I had to get things in shape at home, though. First time I’ve been home for two years.” I paused. We were both silent, both longing to be rid of the other, but neither knowing just how to terminate the conversation.
“Oh. Ah. Um,” said Mortimer at last. He cleared his throat. He half turned from me.
“And how did you find Dan, Jim? I haven’t seen him— lately. Bad blow, Billy Riggs dying and all.”
“Yes, it was. Dan’s all right.” Another wretched pause. Then I said impulsively, “Mr. Rugby, I wish there was something we could do for Dan.”
He started, and turned to me with such a violent gesture that I was startled, and fell back.
“Eh? Do something for him? Do what? Listen here, young man, neither you nor anyone else can do anything for him. You can’t help him; the least you can do is not to hurt him. That’s all! Just don’t hurt him; leave him alone!”
I was amazed. He was turned sideways toward me, now, and the lamplight showed his old and withered face to be blazing with a sort of terrified wrath; his eyes leapt and sparkled; he shook one finger in my face. His voice had startled me, so qu
avering and tremulous it was, but full of fierceness. My next emotion was one of anger at his words, but I could not be angry at this shabby old man, whom life had already mauled and torn beyond any human feeling except compassion.
“I wouldn’t hurt Dan, Mr. Rugby,” I said quietly. “Dan’s my friend. Goodnight, sir.” I turned and left him. He had not replied to my goodnight, but I had the feeling, though I did not turn, that he watched me wheel out of sight.
The next day was Sunday, and I went to see Livy. At twenty Livy seemed to me to be still the little girl with whom I had gone to school. She was small and plump, with a resolute little face and quick dark eyes, though the leaping braids were now primly pinned about her head. She had her old round way of speaking, definite and frank. I was very much in love with her; she was a constant delight to me. I wanted to kiss her very urgently. It seemed to me very wrong that there was no color in the courageous face, and that her hands were darkened with hard work. It was especially hard for me today to keep from kissing her, for she smelled of clean soap and starch, and the shirtwaist she wore with her plain blue serge skirt was stiff and glistening from a hot iron. At her throat she had pinned a cameo brooch, a hideous thing, rimmed with small discolored pearls, but the little firm chin above it gave even it a sort of beauty.
She looked tired and jaded. The house was very dismal and had a moldy smell for all her hard work and the constant scrubbing of the hired girl. Gloomy old trees shrouded every window; there was an odor of sanctity here that made me remember what Billy Riggs had shouted at the Reverend Bingham. I smiled, for all the latter was Livy’s father.
I called her attention to the golden warmth and splendor of the July day. Not too hot, I said, but just balmy. Why couldn’t she smuggle her bicycle out behind her pious father’s back and come for a wheel with me? She smiled a little, tiptoed away to pin on her stiff straw sailor, and came back, glancing at the small gold watch pinned to her shirtwaist.
“I expect we can go for an hour or two, Jim,” she said. I helped her wheel her bicycle out of the carriage house. We glanced fearfully at the study window; we could see Mr. Bingham’s head nodding over his Bible. No doubt he was preparing or touching up his evening sermon. As we wheeled away I thought I heard him call sternly: “Olivia!” But Livy did not seem to hear, and I discreetly refrained from telling her.
The only thing wrong with Livy was that she had a sense of duty toward the most unlikely creatures. Just when I was beginning to enjoy the bowling along the quiet streets toward the open country, she had to say:
“Jim! Let’s call for Bee and take her along, too. She never goes out much. We—they—all seem to dislike her just as much as ever, though I think she has improved a lot. I don’t know why people her own age can’t stand her, while the older folk think she is perfect, an example to all of us. Do let’s call for her, Jim! Jim?”
I scowled. I wanted to say something violent and negative, but her dear face was so pleading and sweet that I grudgingly assented. But the whole day was spoiled for me. I had had visions of getting her alone somewhere in the quiet country, and sitting down with her under a willow tree beside the creek. I was going to ask her something that needed no asking, but I wanted a definite date fixed in the still distant future. I wanted to talk to her; I had so much to say. And now she had to drag in Beatrice Faire.
“Well,” I said spitefully as we turned towards Big Bend, “if you get Beatrice to chatter and giggle with, I’m going to get Dan Hendricks for myself.”
She nodded delightedly. Was it my imagination, or was the exercise and fresh air or something the cause of the quick light color in her cheeks, the sudden flood of illumination in her eyes? Perhaps it was because she always found pleasure in giving others pleasure.
When we arrived at the Faire house, little and white under the old trees, Beatrice informed us that her mother was lying down, resting. Beatrice wore a white apron over her skirt and shirtwaist, and looked competent and smiling. She glanced from Livy to me and back to Livy again; I thought there was something gloating in her smile. The old secrecy and knowing mannerism were still hers. She seemed pleased at our invitation. I had had a last hope that she would refuse, but her consent put the last touch of gloom upon me. When we three rolled out to get Dan Hendricks, I tried to be pleasant. The girl laughed and chattered to Livy; beside her, Livy’s wholesome prettiness faded, became commonplace. For Beatrice at twenty was a real beauty with her reddish-gold hair and gleaming brown eyes and extraordinary complexion. Too, she was taller than Livy, and finely made, with an exquisite figure that my youthful eyes hung on reluctantly. When she wished she had a sweetness of manner that was mesmeric, and nothing could be more musical than her light and flexible voice. She spun along without apparent effort, seeming to float on the wheel, turning to us brightly when we spoke. Yet her sweetness was poisonous to me, like the sweetness of some deadly flower that I had read grew in sinister jungles. I know my friends would find absurd this description of a country-town girl who had not been beyond the confines of her birthplace in all her life. They would think me exaggerating, or too imaginative, and a little funny. But she affected me so, and I believe that she affected others in the same manner, though they were not articulate enough to say so.
I tried to like her that day, or at least endure her without irritation. But I could not get rid of the feeling about her, that there was something completely evil in her, and noxiously sophisticated. Yet so secret was her inner life that nothing she had done, to my knowledge, bore out my suspicions. If she laughed at her mother in the presence of others, her laughter had a note of affection and good temper. If I had not seen the distressed and dimly anxious expression on Sarah’s face at these times I would have laughed at my own thoughts, myself. If she never said a kindly thing of anyone, she never said a very bad thing. It was only her voice that betrayed her, for all its musical inflections. It was her eyes, lighted with cunning and malice, that made me uneasy. I think now that she was born too late. She would have made an excellent Borgia, or the astute and subtle mistress of some unscrupulous king. She, too, in her way, was a victim of time and circumstance.
She seemed to be sincerely attached to Livy, and so. I almost forgave her, even though she made me fumble and feel uncouth whenever she glanced at me. She had made no objection to the inclusion of Dan into our party, but only nodded indifferently.
Dan was in his garden behind the store and living quarters. He was tying up a rosebush when we appeared at the gate, and he came towards us slowly, blinking. He smiled at Livy, nodded to me, and greeted Beatrice with a stiff reserve, though I noticed that his eyes kept returning to her grudgingly, as though fascinated. I know now that it was her resemblance to her mother that held him, but I did not know then, and my heart sank as I remembered all the rumors that he was “sweet” on her. But I do not think that Beatrice was ever really deceived; I think she knew from the start, and that is why she could make Dan’s life the red hell that she did.
He was willing to go with us, and seemed grateful that we had remembered him. He got out his bicycle, locked his door, and the four of us wheeled away, the girls in front and we behind. He still was not a great talker, but there was infinite peace and content to me in his presence. We rolled out into the country, laughed when the girls squealed at some deep rut in the country roads. The sun shone warm on our faces, the green and growing fields of corn and wheat and rye shimmered on each side of us. The trees bent over us, pungent in the sun, their leaves motionless in the heat. Birds laced the hot air before us, calling in startled notes, and cows looked at us mildly from behind fences. The Sabbath peace lay on everything, and we met no one on the roads, for which Livy was sincerely thankful. It would never do for people to see the minister’s daughter breaking the holy Sabbath this way. We were young; we did not mind the choking golden dust that made us cough as we stirred it up; we did not mind the burning heat. We laughed and sang, and when far from some farmhouse, we whistled and shouted. Even Dan was merry.
/> We approached the hills, which had darkened from distant violet to thick greenness. At the first foothill we dismounted and left our wheels. We climbed up the hill, the girls shrieking when some briar caught at their long and heavy skirts, and professing to be much outraged when they displayed a neat ankle to our boisterous masculine admiration. Their shirtwaist collars were looking a little wilted for all Livy’s and Bee’s perkiness, and our own collars, stiff and tall, were softening about the edges when we reached the hilltop. But it was cool up here, and there was a cluster of young second-growth timber to sit under. A breeze was blowing. We could look down at the floor of the valley dancing in heat waves, at distant white farmhouses, at trees golden in the sun. The lowing of cattle came to us in the shining stillness. In the distance we could see the dark and tufted irregularity of timber that followed the hot blue glint of the creek.
I had never seen Dan animated before to any extent. But today there was a sort of fugitive wildness about him, a gaiety that had in it something feverish and reckless. He exuded vitality as a great stone hot in the sun exudes vitality, an immobile strength, a living power, not to be moved, but eternal. The wildness and gaiety he showed was like the dancing of sunbeams over that stone, the shadow of summer lightnings, the patterns of fluttering butterflies. They did not affect the static vitality underneath, the motionless peace. He laughed easily, lightly, at everything we said. Only his eyes remained as they were, mournful yet placid.