NINETEENTH CHAPTER
QUENTIN CHARTER IS ATTRACTED BY THE TRAVAIL OF _PELEE_, AND ENCOUNTERS AQUEER FELLOW-VOYAGER
Charter did not find Paula Linster in the week of New York that followedhis call at the _Zoroaster_, but he found Quentin Charter. The firstthree or four days were rather intense in a psychological way. The oldvibrations of New York invariably contained for him a destructiveprinciple, as Paris held for Dr. Duprez. The furious consumption ofnerve-tissue during the first evening after his arrival; a renewal ofdesires operating subconsciously, and in no small part through thepassion of Selma Cross; his last struggle, both subtle and furious, withhis own stimulus-craving temperament, and the desolation of the trueromance--combined, among other things, worthily to test the growth ofhis spirit.... The thought that Skylark had fallen into the hands ofSelma Cross, and had been given that ugly estimate of him which theactress held before his call, as he expressed it in his letter, "drovestraight and swiftly to the very centres of sanity." Over this, was aghastly, whimpering thing that would not be immured--the effect ofwhich, of all assailants to rising hope, was most scarifying: That PaulaLinster had suffered herself to listen to those old horrors, and hadpermitted him to be called to the bar before Selma Cross. No matter howhe handled this, it held a fundamental lesion in the Skylark-fineness.
Charter whipped his wastrel tendencies one by one until on the fifth dayhis resistance hardened, and the brute within him was crippled frombeating against it. His letter to Paula Linster was a triumph ofrepression. Probably one out of six of the thoughts that came to himwere given expression. He felt that he had made of Selma Cross animplacable enemy, and was pursued by the haunting dread (if, indeed, theconversation had not been overheard), that she might think better about"squaring" him. It was on this fifth day that for a moment the mysticattraction returned to his consciousness, and he heard the old singing.This was the first reward for a chastened spirit. Again andagain--though never consciously to be lured or forced--the vision,unhurt, undiminished, returned for just an instant with a veiled, butexquisite refinement.
The newspaper account of Pelee's overflowing wrath immediatelymaterialized all his vague thought of voyaging. His quest had vanishedfrom New York. Had Selma Cross been true to her word; at least, had anypart of their interview been empowered to restore something of the faithof Paula Linster--there had been ample time for him to hear it. He wasafraid that, in itself, his old intimacy with the actress had beenenough to startle the Skylark into uttermost flight. Reifferscheid'sfrigidity had required only one test to become a deep trouble. His hintthat Miss Linster would be away two or three months rendered New Yorkand a return to his own home equally impossible. Father Fontanel held abright, substantial warmth for his isolated spirit--and the _Panther_was among the imminent sailings.
He bought his berth and passage on the morning of the sailing date, andthere was a matinee of _The Thing_ in the meantime. Charter did notnotify Selma Cross of his coming, but he liked the play unreservedly,and was amazed by the perfection of her work. He wrote her a line tothis effect; and also a note of congratulation and greeting to StephenCabot.... It was not without a pang that he looked back at Manhattanfrom The Narrows that night.
For several mornings he had studied the gaunt, striding figure of afellow-passenger, who appeared to be religious in the matter of hisconstitutional; or, as a sailor softly remarked as he glanced up atCharter from his holy-stoning, "He seems to feel the need av walkin' offsivin or eight divils before answerin' the breakfast-gong...." Inbehalf of this stranger also, Charter happened to overhear thechief-steward encouraging one of the waiters to extra-diligence inservice, Queerly, in the steward's mind, the interest seemed of a deepersort than even an unusual fee could exact--as if he recognized in thestranger a man exalted in some mysterious masonry. And Charter noticedthat the haggard giant enforced a sort of willing slavery throughout theship--from the hands, but through the heads. This strange potentialitywas decidedly interesting; as was the figure in itself, which seemedpossessed of the strength of vikings, in spite of an impression,inevitable to Charter when he drew near--of one enduring a sort ofPromethean dissolution. Charter reflected upon the man's eyes, which hadthe startling look of having penetrated beyond the formality ofDeath--into shadows where inquisition-hells were limned. It was notuntil he heard the steward address the other as "Doctor Bellingham,"that the fanciful attraction weakened. His recollection crowdedinstantly with newspaper paragraphs regarding the Bellingham activities.Charter was rather normal in his masculine hatred for hypnotic artistsand itinerary confessionals for women.
The _Panther_ ran into a gale in that storm-crucible off Hatteras.Charter smiled at the thought, as the striding Bellingham passed, doinghis mileage on the rocking deck, that the roar of the wind in thefunnels aloft was fierce energy in the draughts of this human furnace.While his own interest waned, the other, curiously enough, began torespond to his unspoken overtures of a few days before. The _Panther_was a day out from San Juan, steaming past the far-flung coral shoalsoff Santo Domingo, when Charter was beckoned forward where Bellinghamsat.
"This soft air would call a Saint Francis down from his spiritualmeditations," the Doctor observed.
The voice put Charter on edge, and the manner affected him with inwardhumor. It was as if the other thought, "Why, there's that pleasant-facedyoung man again. Perhaps it would be just as well to speak with him." Ashe drew up his chair, however, Charter was conscious of an abrupt changein his mental attitude--an inclination to combat, verbally to rush in,seize and destroy every false utterance. His initial idea was to compelthis man who spoke so glibly of meditations to explain what the wordmeant to him. This tense, nervous impatience to disqualify all the othermight say became dominant enough to be reckoned with, but when Charterbegan to repress his irritation, a surprising inner resistance wasencountered. His sensation was that of one being demagnetized. Thoughtsand words came quickly with the outgoing energy of the current.Altogether he was extraordinarily affected.
"These Islands are not particularly adapted for one who pursues theausterities," he replied.
"Yet where can you find such temperamental happiness?" Bellinghaminquired, plainly testing the other. His manner of speech was flippant,as if it were quite the same to him if his acquaintance preferredanother subject.
"Anywhere among the less-evolved nations, when the people are warm andfed."
The Doctor smiled. "You will soon see the long, lithe coppery bodies ofthe Islanders, as they plunge into the sea from the Antillean cliffs.You will hear the soft laughter of the women, and then you will forgetto deny their perfection." Sensuality exhaled from the utterance.
"You speak of the few brief zenith years which lie at the end of youth,"Charter said. "This sort of perfection exists anywhere. In the Antillesit certainly is not because the natives have learned how to preservelife."
"That's just the point," said Bellingham, "Add to their natural gifts ofbeautiful young bodies--the knowledge of preservation."
"Take a poor, unread Island boy and inform him how to live forever,"Charter observed. "Of course, he'll grasp the process instantly. Butwouldn't it be rather severe on the other boys and girls, if the usualformula of perpetuating self is used? I mean, would he not have torestore his vitality from the others?"
Bellingham stared at him. Charter faced it out, but not without cost,for the livid countenance before him grew more and more ghastly andtenuous, until it had the effect of becoming altogether unsubstantial;and out of this wraith shone the eyes of the serpent. The clash of willswas quickly passed.
"You have encountered a different fountain of youth from mine," theDoctor said gently.
"Rather I have encountered a disgust for any serious consideration ofimmortality in the body."
"Interesting, but our good Saint Paul says that those who are in thebody when the last call sounds, will be caught up--without disturbingthe sleep of the dead."
"It would be rather hard on such bodies--if the chariots were of fir
e,"Charter suggested.
He was inwardly groping for his poise. He could think well enough, butit disturbed him to feel the need to avoid the other's eyes. He likedthe shaping of the conversation and knew that Bellingham felt himselfunknown. Charter realized, too, that he would strike fire if he hammeredlong enough, but there was malevolence in the swift expenditure ofenergy demanded.
Bellingham smiled again. "Then you think it is inevitable that the endof man is--the clouds?"
"The aspiration of the spirit, I should say, is to be relieved of feetof clay.... Immortality in the body--that's an unbreakable paradox tome. I'm laminated, Harveyized against anything except making a finetentative instrument of the body."
"You think, then, that the spirit grows as the body wastes?"
"Orientals have encountered starvation with astonishing results tophilosophy," Charter remarked. "But I was thinking only of a body firmlyhelmed by a clean mind. The best I have within me declares that thefleshly wrapping becomes at the end but a cumbering cerement; thatthrough life, it is a spirit-vault. When I pamper the body, followingits fitful and imperious appetites, I surely stiffen the seals of thevault. In my hours in which the senses are dominant the spirit shrinksin abhorrence; just as it thrills, warms and expands in rarer moments ofnobility."
"Then the old martyrs and saints who macerated themselves wove greatfolds of spirit?"
The inconsequential manner of the question urged Charter to greatereffort to detach, if possible, for a moment at least, the other's Ego."In ideal," he went on, "I should be as careless of food as Thoreau, ascareless of physical pain as Suso. As for the reproductive devilincarnated in man--it, and all its ramifications, since the mostdelicate and delightful of these so often betray--I should encase in thecoldest steel of repression----"
"You say, in ideal," Bellingham ventured quietly. "... But are not thesegreat forces splendid fuel for the mind? Prodigious mental workers havesaid so."
"A common view," said Charter, who regarded the remark ascharacteristic. "Certain mental workers are fond of expressing this. Youhear it everywhere with a sort of 'Eureka.' Strength of the loins is buta coarse inflammation to the mind. A man may use such excess strength,earned by continence, in the production of exotics, feverish lyrics, andin depicting summer passions, but the truth is, that so long as thatforce is not censored, shriven and sterilized--it is the same junglepestilence, and will color the mind with impurity. It is much betterwhere it belongs--than in the mind."
"You do not believe in the wild torrents, the forked lightnings, and theshocking thunders of the poets?"
"I like the calm, conquering voices of the prophets better....Immortality of the body?... There can be no immortality in a substancewhich earth attracts. We have vast and violent lessons to learn in theflesh; lessons which can be learned only in the flesh, because it is amatrix for the integration of spirit. It appears to me that, in duetime, man reaches a period when he balances in the attractions--betweenthe weight of the body and the lifting of the soul. This is the resultof a slow, refining process that has endured through all time.Reincarnation is the best theory I know for the process. That there isan upward tendency driving the universe, seems to be the only cause andjustification for Creating. Devolution cannot be at the centre of such asystem.... The body becomes more and more a spotless garment for thesoul; soul-light more and more electrifies it; the elimination ofcarnality in thought may even render the body delicate and transparent,but it is a matrix still, and falls away--when one's full-formed wingsno longer need the weight of a thorax----"
"What an expression!" Bellingham observed abruptly. He had been staringaway toward a low, cloudy film of land in the south. One would havethought that he had heard only the sentence which aroused his comment.Charter was filling with violence. The man's vanity was chained to himlike a corpse. This experience of pouring out energy to no purposearoused in Charter all the forces which had combined to force the publicto his work. The thought came that Bellingham was so accustomed todirect the speech and thought of others, mainly women, that he had lostthe listening faculty.
"Let me express it, then," Charter declared with his stoutestrepression, "that this beautiful surviving element, having finished withthe flesh, knows only the attraction of Light. It is the perfect flowerof ages of earth-culture, exquisite and inimitable from the weatheringcenturies, and is radiant for a higher destiny than a cooling planet'scrust----"
"My dear young man, you speak very clearly, prettily, and not withoutforce, I may say,--a purely Platonistic gospel."
Charter's mental current was turned off for a second. True or false, theremark was eminently effective. A great man might have said it, or adilettante.
"In which case, I have a firm foundation."
"But I am essentially of the moderns," said Bellingham.
"Perhaps I should have known that from your first remark--about thebrown bodies of the Islanders, rejoicing in the sunlight and bathing inthese jewelled seas."
"Ah, yes----" The softening of Bellingham's mouth, as he recalled hisown words, injected fresh stimulant into the animus of the other. AsCharter feared the eyes, so he had come to loathe the mouth, though hewas not pleased with the intensity of his feelings.
"Do you honestly believe that--that which feels the attraction of earth,and becomes a part of earth after death--is the stuff of immortality?"he demanded.
"By marvellous processes of prolongation and refinement--and barringaccident--yes."
"Processes which these poor Islanders could understand?"
"We are moving in a circle," Bellingham said hastily.
For the first moment, Charter felt the whip-hand over his own faculties.
"I've noted the great, modern tendency to preach _body_," he said,inhaling a big breath of the fragrant air, "to make a religion of bodilyhealth--to look for elemental truth in alimentary canals; to mix prayerwith carnal subterfuge and heaven with health resorts. Better Phallicismbare-faced.... I read a tract recently written by one of thesebody-worshippers--the smug, black devil. It made me feel just as I didwhen I found a doctor book in the attic once, at the age of ten....Whatever I may be, have done, may feel, dream or think below thediaphragm--hasn't anything to do with my religion. I believe in health,as in a good horse or a good typewriter, but my body's health is notgoing to rule my day."
"You are young--to have become chilled by such polar blasts," Bellinghamsaid uneasily, for he now found the other's eyes but without result.
"I came into the world with a full quiver of red passions," Charter saidwearily, yet strangely glad. "The quiver is not empty. I do not say thatI wish it were, but I have this to declare: I do not relish being toldhow to play with the barbs; how to polish and point and delight in them;how to put them back more deadly poisoned. I think there are bigblankets of mercy for a natural voluptuary--for the things done whentissues are aflame--but for the man who deliberately studies to recreatethem without cost, and tells others of his experiments--frankly, Ibelieve in hell for such men-maggots. Oblivion is too sweet. The essenceof my hatred for these Bodyists is because of the poison they infuseinto the minds of youths and maidens, whose character-skeletons arestill rubbery.... But let such teachers purr, wriggle, and dilate--forthey're going back right speedily to the vipers!"
Bellingham's eyes had been lost in the South. He turned, arose, andafter a pause said lightly, "Your talk is strong meat, young man....I--I suffered a serious accident some months ago and cannot stay toolong in one place. We shall talk again. How far do you go with the_Panther_?"
"Saint Pierre."
Charter already felt the first pangs of reaction. His vehemence, theburn of temper for himself, in that he had allowed the other'spersonality to prey upon him, and the unwonted aggressiveness of histalk--all assumed an evil aspect now as he perceived the occultist'sghastly face. In rising, Bellingham seemed to have stirred withinhimself centres of unutterable torture. His look suggested one who hasbeen drilled in dreadful arcanums of pain, unapproached by ordinary men.
/>
"I think I must have been pent a long time," Charter said in histrouble. "Perhaps, I'm a little afraid of myself and was rehearsing awarning for the strength of my own bridle-arm--since we're swinging downinto these Isles of Seduction."
"You'll find a more comfortable coolness with the years, I think, andcease to abhor your bounding physical vitality. Remember, 'Jesus cameeating and drinking----'"
Charter started under the touch of the old iron. "But 'wisdom isjustified of all her children,'" he responded quickly.
They were at the door of Bellingham's cabin, which was forward on thepromenade. The doctor laughed harshly as he turned the key. "I see youhave your Scriptures, too," he said. "We must talk again."
"How far do you go with the _Panther_?" Charter asked, drawing away. Hiseyes had filled for a second, as the door swung open, with thephotograph of a strangely charming young woman within the cabin.
"I have not decided--possibly on to South America."
Charter felt as he walked alone that he had shown his youth, even apertness of youth. He recalled that he had done almost all the talking;that he had felt the combativeness of a boy who scents a rival fromanother school--quite ridiculous. Moreover, he was weary, as if one ofhis furious seasons of work had just ended--that rare and excellent kindof work which gathers about itself an elemental force to drive the mindas with fire until the course is run.... He did not encounter Bellinghamduring the rest of the voyage.
Long before dawn the _Panther_ gained the harbor before Saint Pierre,and Charter awoke to the consciousness of a disorder in the air. Aloneon deck, while the night was being driven back over the rising land, hewas delighted to pick out the writhing letters of gold, "_Saragossa_,"through the smoky gray, a few furlongs to the south. Peter Stock, anacquaintance from a former call at Saint Pierre, had become a solid andfruitful memory....
Father Fontanel was found early, where the suffering was greatest in thecity. The old eyes lit with gladness as he caught Charter with bothhands, and murmured something as his gaze sank into the eyes of theyounger man--something which Charter did not exactly understand, aboutwolves being slain.
"What have you been doing with Old Man Pelee, Father? We heard himgroaning in the night, and the town is fetid with his sickness."
"Ah, my son, I am afraid!"
Had all the seismologists of civilization gathered in Saint Pierre, anduttered a verdict that the volcano was an imminent menace, Charter wouldnot have turned a more serious look at Pelee than he did that moment....At the _Palms_, he found Peter Stock and a joyous welcome. They arrangedfor luncheon together, and the Capitalist hurried down into the city....That proved a memorable luncheon, since Peter Stock at the last momentpersuaded Miss Wyndam to join them.
Charter was disturbed with the thought that he had seen her before; andamazed that he could have forgotten where. He could only put it far backamong the phantasmagoria of drinking days. Certainly the sane, restoredCharter had never met this woman and forgotten. His veins were dilatedas by a miraculous wine.
"The name is new to me, but I seem to have seen you somewhere, MissWyndam," he declared.
"That's the second time you've said that, young man," Mr. Stockremarked. "Don't your sentences register?"
"It's always bewildering--I know how Mr. Charter feels," Paula managedto say. "I'm quite sure we were never introduced, though I know Mr.Charter's work."
"That's good of you, indeed," he said. "I don't mean--to know mywork--but to help me out with Friend Stock. It is bewildering that Ihave forgotten. I feel like a boy in an enchanted forest. Pelee has beenworking wonders all day."
"I can't follow you," the Capitalist sighed. "Your sentences arepuckered."
They hardly heard him. Paula, holding fast with all her strength to thepart she had planned to play, sensed Charter's blind emotion, distinctfrom her own series of shocks. To her it was that furious moment ofadjustment, when a man and his ideal meet for the first time in awoman's heart. As for this heart, she feared they would hear itsbeating. Instantly, she knew that he had not come to Saint Pierreexpecting to find her; knew that she was flooding into hissubconsciousness--that he felt _worlds_ and could not understand. Shefound the boy in his eyes--the boy of his old picture--and the deeplines and the white skin of a man who has lived clean, and the brow of aman who has thought many clean things. He was thinking of the Skylark,and "Wyndam" disturbed him.... Always when he hesitated in his speech,the right word sprang to her lips to help him. She caught the veryprocesses of his thinking; his remoteness from the thought of food, washer own.... For hours, since she had heard his voice below, Paula hadpaced the floor of her room, planning to keep her secret long. She wouldplay and watch his struggle to remember the Skylark; she would weigh theforces of the conflict, stimulate it; study him among men, in thepresence of suffering, and in the dread of the mountain. All this shehad planned, but now her whole heart went out to the boy in hiseyes--the boy that smiled. All the doubts which at best she had hopedfor the coming days to banish were erased in a moment; she even believedin its fullness the letter from Selma Cross--because he was embarrassed,brimming with emotions he could not understand, quite as the boy of herdreams would be. She lived full-length in his silences, hardly dared tolook at him now, for she felt his constant gaze. She knew that she wascolorless, but that her eyes were filled with light.... Presently sherealized that they were talking of Father Fontanel.
"He's a good old man," said Peter Stock. "He works day and night--andrefuses to call it work. Just think of having a servant with a God likeFather Fontanel's to make work easy!"
"He's even a little bit sorry for Pelee," Charter said. "I'm never quitethe same in Saint Pierre. Many times up in the States, I ask myself, ifit isn't largely in my mind about Father Fontanel's spirit and hiseffect upon me. It isn't. Stronger than ever it came to me this morning.You know him?" He turned the last to the woman.
"Yes, I found him down on the water-front----"
"And brought him to me," said Mr. Stock, and added: "You know whatbothered me about priests so long--they seem to have it all settledbetween them that theirs is the only true Air-line Limited to God.Fontanel's down in the lowlands, where life is pent and cruel, wherethere are weak sisters and little ones who have to be helped over hardways--that's what gets Peter Stock."
"You don't know how good that is to hear," Paula said softly. "I havethought it, too, about some men in holy orders--black figures movingalong in a 'grim, unfraternal' Indian file, with their eyes so occupiedin keeping their feet from breaking fresh ground--that it seems theymust sometimes lose the Summit."
Charter looked from one to the other. Peter Stock regarded their plates.Paula made a quick pretense of eating, and was grateful when Charterbroke the silence: "Yes, Father Fontanel has found one of the trails tothe Top--one of the happy ones. Sometimes I think there are just as manytrails, as an ant could find to the top of an apple. Wayfarers goa-singing on Father Fontanel's trail--eyes warm with soft skies anduntellable dreams. It's a way of fineness and loving-kindness----"
Mr. Stock had risen from the table and moved to a window which faced theNorth. All was vague about them. Paula had been carried by Charter'svoice toward far-shining mountains.... In the silence, she met thestrange, steady eyes of _the boy_, and looked away to find that the roomhad darkened.
"It is getting dark," he said.
She would have said it, if he hadn't.
The mountain rumbled.
"The North is a mass of swirling grays and blacks," Peter Stockannounced from the window. "It isn't a thunderstorm----"
A sharp detonation cleaved the darkening air, and from the rear of thehouse the answer issued--quavering cries of children, sharp calling ofmothers, and the sullen undertone of men. A subdued drumming came fromthe North now, completing the tossing currents of sound about the house.The dismal bellowing of cattle and the stamping of ponies was heard fromthe barns. All this was wiped out by a series of terrific crashes, andthe floor stirred as if intaking a deep breath. The dini
ng-room filledwith a crying, crouching gray-lipped throng of servants. A deluge of ashcomplicated the half-night outside, and the curse of sulphur presseddown.
Paula arose. Charter had taken his place close beside her, but spoke noword.