He paused. He smiled down at Angus, and to Angus that smile was black and evil.
“You will tell Mr. Schnitzel, Angus, that he will clean up and repair at once. You will tell him to cancel his contracts. For if he does not, we shall ruin him, I am afraid. Yes, quite ruin him.”
Angus got to his feet swiftly. He confronted Stuart, and his face was white and rigid. “You are a lawless man, Cousin Stuart,” he said, in a hard still voice. “You have no respect for law and order, and the rights of citizens such as Mr. Schnitzel. You are a revolutionary, an agitator, a Nihilist. You are not a true American, Cousin Stuart. The rights of property mean nothing to you, the sacred rights of property guaranteed by the Constitution and upheld by Holy Writ. You profane these rights ordained by Almighty God, and would overturn the work of centuries. You are blasphemous, Cousin Stuart.”
Stuart, incredulous, looked into the young man’s eyes, and could not believe it. Was there craftiness in those eyes, hypocrisy, cynicism? No, there was not! Those eyes were burning with righteous indignation, with profound conviction. Stuart could not believe it. He was amazed.
“Why—why, you imbecile!” he stammered, quite struck. He stared at Angus, at the countenance whitely vehement like an affronted angel’s. The lad believed what he had said! He believed, actually believed, that he had the sanction of God and the justice of men to uphold him. At this, Stuart was horrified. He began to shout, out of his confusion, his frenzy of disgust and dismay:
“Get out of here, before I boot you out, you fool! And tell your master what I’ve told you! Did I say three months? It’s two months now, and be damned to you, you idiot and pig!”
He seized Angus by the shoulder and literally dragged him to the door, then struck him in the face. He flung open the door and hurled the young man violently out into the shop itself. The distant clerks turned to stare, the customers to gape. Then, with one loud last clap, Stuart slammed the door and fell into his chair, gasping.
CHAPTER 47
Stuart sat with Father Houlihan under the wide branches of the pear tree in the priest’s old garden. The fruit hung in rosy-golden globules above their heads, smelling sweet and luscious in the warm autumn sun. The garden was long and narrow, with brick paths winding by rich and untidy beds of yellow and scarlet flowers, which grew with a kind of hearty exuberance found nowhere else. Between the sunken and uneven bricks grass and moss sprouted. Along a brick wall were matted the canes of thick climbing roses, and as these were a special kind unknown in that region except in this garden, they were blooming in heavy crimson clusters. Father Houlihan had a way with flowers. His rose-garden was ablaze with scarlet, white and gold and soft pink, and there were even a few bushes bearing upon them blooms so dark that they seemed purple, or almost black. Here and there, along the paths, stood crude small statues of white stone, Madonnas in pious attitudes surrounded by little low bright flower beds. A bird-bath in the center of the garden was riotous with birds, chattering of their autumnal migration. From the chicken-pens at the end of the garden came a loud clucking. Father Houlihan also possessed a dove-cote, and the white and purplish birds cooed mournfully to themselves, and lifted their wings to catch the clear and lucid light upon their feathers. It was amazing what that rather small garden could hold. Besides the pear tree, there were three apple trees, heavy with scarlet fruit, and a maple burning like a sacred bush. Formless, yet kind and lovely in its color and plenitude, that garden appeared the most peaceful and shining spot to Stuart, and as he sat under the pear tree with Father Houlihan he felt some of the black despondency in him lighten and become more bearable.
He and the priest were fondly observing little Mary Rose as she wandered among the rose-gardens, cutting blooms which she deposited in a small basket. The child, her little triangular face flushed with a rare color, would pause delightedly to exchange conversation with excitable squirrels in the trees, or to examine some extraordinarily beautiful rose. She was part of that garden, in her blowing white frock covered with a blue cloak, a blue bonnet over her dark thick hair, her little sandalled feet tripping lightly along the paths. She was nine years old, but because of her smallness and slenderness appeared much younger, as if she had been absorbed in timelessness when she had been six and had grown no older. She was preoccupied with her own shy and wondering thoughts, and had forgotten her father and her old friend. She removed her bonnet, and the fresh warm wind lifted her long hair and blew it about her face in heavy tangles. She laughed a little, a sweet and gentle sound, and put back her-hair with tiny hands, looking about her.
“The child seems better,” murmured Father Houlihan, beaming.
“Yes. And her cough is less. I’ll have to send her away with her mother before the winter comes, however,” replied Stuart, a worried frown appearing between his black brows. “The winter here is too much for her. No sun. The mountains will be better.”
Mary Rose began to cough on a sudden spasm. She pressed her hands to her throat, and bent down in the paroxysm. Her face became contorted, scarlet. Stuart moved as to rise and go to her. Then the spasm was gone as suddenly as it had come. The child brought a kerchief out of her pocket and wiped her damp brow, shaking back her hair. She sighed. They could hear that sigh above the soft breeze. Her eyes were suffused. Then her attention was attracted by a particularly impudent squirrel, and she laughed weakly. She resumed her walk along the paths.
Father Houlihan’s hand crept to Stuart’s beside him on the white bench, and he pressed that hand with deep comfort and sympathy. He said brightly: “Yes, her cough is much better. Shorter, less hard. She will be quite well when she has reached her teens.”
Above them, the sky was a brilliant dark blue, completely cloudless, filled with light. All at once everything was vivid with color, blazing in the last fire of the passing summer. But Stuarts despondency had suddenly increased.
He poked at the moss between the bricks, and said, dourly: “Grundy, you’ll have me in jail one of these days.”
Father Houlihan glanced at him, alarmed.
“What do you mean, Stuart?” asked the priest, with increasing dismay.
Stuart laughed abruptly. He poked at the moss with increased viciousness.
“Well, I threw that frozen stick of an Angus out of my office yesterday. I also clouted him—hard, not once, but several times, in the face. If I know him right, he’ll not forget that. It’s an excellent thing that he is my employee, and my kinsman; otherwise I’d be sued for assault and battery.”
“But why, Stuart?” asked Father Houlihan anxiously. He passed an agitated hand over his great bald head on which the last splinters of golden hair near his neck and ears had turned white in the last few years.
Stuart told him the story, in harsh, amused words. But it was evident that his own violence had disturbed him. He added: “If it hadn’t been for you, Grundy, yelping about Schnitzel’s pig-pens, and insisting that I help you no matter what, and driving me mad with your naggings, I’d never have cared nor bothered. My God, why do you have to meddle? You’ve your own parish, Grundy. Isn’t that enough?”
“But Stuart, some of my parishioners live in those stinking sties. I’ve seen them die, Stuart. I’ve seen their children cough and choke themselves to death, and vermin and other filth. They’ve begged me to help them.” He paused. Stuart’s smile was heavy and disagreeable. He continued to poke the moss more viciously. The priest put his hand urgently on his friend’s arm. “Stuart, you know very well that you have been almost as concerned as myself. I told you the story, and you visited Schnitzel’s property. Stuart, I’m sorry. If I had known—” he added, in a humble tone, and with a sigh.
Stuart could not let this pass. He laughed shortly.“Never mind, Grundy. You are right. Damn you, you are always right. But one of these days I’ll have to pluck you out of a mob, or wipe the tar and feathers off you. You’re making Hog Schnitzel very annoyed with you, and knowing humanity as I do, it wouldn’t surprise me but what he’d induce the very people you a
re attempting to rescue to knock your brains out or burn down your house.”
He expected Father Houlihan to deny this, vehemently, with his usual passionate belief in the inherent goodness of human nature. But instead, to his surprise, Father Houlihan seemed to dwindle, to shrink. His head sank between his broad fat shoulders. He sighed deeply, over and over.
“You haven’t been receiving more threats?” demanded Stuart angrily.
The priest shook his head. He passed his hands over his face. He tried to smile. “Not more than usual, Stuart.” All the brightness and comfort had gone from him. He looked blindly before him, his strenuous blue eyes, filmed now, automatically watching the fluttering of Mary Rose’s white frock and blue cape. He seemed to sink into sad meditations.
He said, abstractedly: “They have done bad things to our Angus, I’m thinking. They are killing his soul.”
“Damn his soul! He never had one, or it was a wizened little lump of clay if he did! Grundy, you are an ass, with your talk of souls. And your meddling with the ‘welfare’ of creatures who are quite contented as they are.”
The priest said musingly: “Father Hauser of St. Louis’ Church visited me yesterday. He is a very elegant man. He sat in my parlor like a gentlemanly wax dummy and informed me that I was ‘embarrassing’ my brother priests with my ‘crusades’ in behalf of the people. He inferred I was ‘noisy.’ At least that is the impression he gave me. He is much too polite to be openly insulting. He uses lavender on his kerchiefs, and looked about my parlor with a significant smile. He suggested that I was a poor man and that perhaps it was because I was ‘incorrigible’ and was not supported by my wealthier parishioners, who might be offended by my ‘radical’ ideas. In a way, he suggested with the utmost courtesy, I was injuring Mother Church in these delicate days, and inspiring distrust against her, and antagonism. He assured me that other priests were of his opinion. He hinted, therefore, that I confine myself solely to ministering to souls, and close my eyes to evils and injustices and exploitations and miseries which could be alleviated.”
Stuart exclaimed, explosively: “What a damned fool he must be! Doesn’t he understand that it is obligatory on every man, clergyman or layman, to fight for the welfare, health and peace of a community?”
Father Houlihan laughed softly. His blue eyes were gentle and shining. He put his hand on Stuart’s shoulder and pressed it fondly. “You have answered yourself, my dear Stuart,” he said, with love.
Stuart laughed, embarrassed. “Well, you have me now, Grundy, you confounded wretch. Go on, then. Do what you want. As things are moving now, we’ll have Hog Schnitzel’s pig-pens cleaned up shortly. What next,” he added, with elaborate sarcasm, “do you desire to attack? And who? I’m your man. I’ll sharpen up the battle-ax.”
They laughed together, with affection. But Stuart shrewdly observed that the shadow did not entirely leave his friend’s large tired face. There was a weariness about him, an abstraction, a pathos, which had never been there before. He sighed, even when he smiled.
The priest began to talk of the troubled times.
“There’ll be no doubt that Abraham Lincoln will be elected,” said he. “He is a good man, a noble man, from the reports, and most of the people in the North will support him. But what of the South? South Carolina has threatened to secede from the Union if he is elected. These are bad days, Stuart, bad days.”
“Let them all secede if they want to,” said Stuart, indifferently. He was anxiously watching his little daughter, who had suddenly ceased her play, and was lying under the maple with closed eyes.
Father Houlihan turned to him quickly. “But Stuart, you don’t understand. Suppose that many of the Southern States secede and form their own union. Then we shall no longer have a strong and single nation, but two smaller nations, vulnerable to attack by their enemies. As in Europe. Only a single confederacy can retain freedom in America, defying a whole envious world to destroy it. I know my history in a measure, Stuart. A divided America will be a weakened America, prey to any adventurer nation which will covet it. Europe is hoping for division, and plotting future attack. I know.”
“Well, we’ll be infernal fools, North and South alike, if we permit such a division, and such a danger,” said Stuart restlessly. Was the child asleep? Should he go to her? “Besides, why should we war with each other for the sake of blackamoors?”
“The negroes are men,” replied the priest, with quiet urgency. “The enslavement of any man by another is a crime not only against the slave but against all men everywhere. Wherever a single man is oppressed, the world of men is oppressed in his oppression. Wherever a crime is committed, anywhere in the world, every man is guilty.”
“I suppose you’ve told that to your parishioners,” said Stuart, amusedly, still watching his daughter. “And that is why Schnitzel and his friends are calling you a troublemaker. Grundy, I can’t be interested in the blackamoors. I’ve seen only one or two, and that is perhaps the reason. More important than all is the unity of America. If the negro must be sacrificed at present to maintain that unity, then he must be sacrificed. Time will solve all things, believe me.”
“The laissez-faire of the hard-hearted and cruel man!” cried the priest, indignantly. “You don’t know what you are saying, Stuart. It isn’t like you. You are merely repeating the sly insinuations of lesser and more venal men. The Southern people, in their hearts, know that slavery is hideous and unjust, a crime before the face of God.”
“I understand that they’re not as interested in that as they are at the threat of the usurpation of their sovereign rights. If they secede, Grundy, they will be acting in accordance with the provisions of the Constitution. It is their right.”
“There are certain rights, Stuart, which must be abrogated in behalf of the safety and peace even of those who seek to abrogate them.”
“Now you are becoming too subtle for me, Grundy.” Stuart’s voice was kind. But the signs of dissipated exhaustion was increasing in his expression and manner. He rubbed his eyes. “Damn it, there mustn’t be war. What will happen to trade? And, Grundy, I can’t afford another panic,” he added simply. “I’m in debt, above my head. I’ve repaid Sam only three thousand dollars in the past four years. What’ll we do if our European shipments are cut off, as they will be in the event of war? Grundy, I’ll be ruined.”
Father Houlihan, in his concern, forebore to point out to Stuart that his misfortunes were the result of his extravagances, which had not decreased. He only regarded Stuart with sympathy. He said, trying to comfort his friend: “Perhaps there’ll be no war. Surely differences between kinsmen can be settled amicably, and in peace.”
Stuart said, after a moment: “Did you know that Laurie is going to Europe next April? For two years’ study, I believe.” His black eyes smiled. “What a wench it is! I have such excellent reports of her. She will be home before she leaves, and I shall give her sundry warnings, as a man of the world.”
Father Houlihan, watching his friend, was disquieted for some nameless reason. For at the mention of Laurie’s name, Stuart’s face had become secret and gentle, and abstracted. The priest said: “Laurie needs no warning. She is armored against the world. She is armored with bitterness and hardness and contempt.”
“Nonsense. Why should a minx not yet seventeen be bitter or hard or contemptuous? She hasn’t learned all that in New York, Grundy.”
“No,” said the priest sadly, “she learned that in her cradle, I am afraid. What a lovely face it is! Like an angel’s. It is a face of golden metal. Only the finger of love, and God, could touch her heart, which is golden and cold and hard, also.”
Stuart moved restlessly. His eyes were full of pain which he did not understand. He saw Laurie before him, and the strangest pang divided his heart. He took two cheroots out of his waistcoat pocket and gave one to his friend. He struck a lucifer, and lighted both cheroots. His big brown hand was trembling slightly. The blue smoke curled from their lips and floated in the warm air.
Then Stuart said suddenly: “There’s something wrong with you, Grundy. I feel it. What is it?”
He expected his friend to deny this. But the priest’s face changed, became old and flaccid. He said simply: “Stuart; I am afraid. I am full of fear.”
“Fear?” Stuart stared. “Of what?”
But the priest did not answer. He was watching Mary Rose, who was rising feebly from the grass, and brushing off her cloak. The child lifted her basket of roses, and smiling, came towards her father and the priest. Father Houlihan s smile was like the sun, tender and warm and beaming. “Little love,” he called, “are you tired?”
The child approached them, stood before them. The color had gone from her cheeks; her eyes were heavy. But she smiled at them shyly. She looked down at her flowers and said: “They are so pretty. Prettier than ours, Father Houlihan.”
She picked one up in her frail fingers and held it to her little nose.
“Careful,” warned the priest. “They have sharp thorns, my darling.”
She still held the rose against her lips, and looked at him wonderingly. “But, Father Houlihan, I don’t look at the thorns. I look only at the flowers.”
Stuart laughed with fond indulgence. But the priest had forgotten him. A strange expression appeared on his large coarse features. He leaned towards the girl. He said softly, eagerly: “What do you mean, child?”
But she was not puzzled. She stood against his black plump knee and looked down at him artlessly. “I know the thorns are there, Father Houlihan. Under the leaves and along the stem. Sometimes there are worms in the roses, too. But I don’t look at them. I see how pretty the buds are, and how fresh, and how sweet they smell. I think God’s mind is so beautiful, in the roses. I don’t think He wanted the worms and the thorns there, but only the scent and the petals, and so we musn’t look at anything but the roses, and forget the others.”