The Barrier: A Novel

  CHAPTER X

  DRAWN BOTH WAYS

  Those youthful promptings which so stirred Pease, far beyond his owncomprehension, kept working in him through the summer weeks. The joy ofliving, which he supposed he had mastered, appeared to him an alteredthing, so that its object no longer reposed on shelves in his study, butmoved serenely in a cottage above the harbour at Chebasset. Peaseaccepted the change with the innocence which was particularly his, andfollowed his new chase with but slight idea that he was varying from hisusual course. For being a man of social preciseness, he was given tomaking calls, and made no distinction between the kind to which he washabituated, the so-named duty call, and the new visit which was made forpleasure. Mather wondered, after a few unusual appearances of Pease atthe mill, if the banker was overseeing his work; but as on each occasionPease went farther up the hill Mather put the visits down to the rightcause.

  As most people are gifted with that kind of insight which the managerthus exercised, others as well came to note Pease's actions, and theircause, before the banker did himself. Miss Cynthia, who spent summer aswell as winter in the city (for since her poor people could not getaway, neither would she), came early to know what seed she had plantedin her cousin's breast. For he was open as the day, and without thoughtof concealment told her where he was going or where he had been. MissCynthia set her mouth at each mention of Chebasset, but as they cameoftener she began to consider if she should not have to give up herchamber, the best in the house, and take the one in the rear. Or perhapsit might be best to live elsewhere altogether. But looking at her cousinone day, all his goodness seemed lost in his homeliness and lack ofcharm. So she smiled the grim smile of pity, and set about making himmore comfortable at home than ever.

  Mather also had occasion to smile thus, when one day he allowed BethBlanchard's word of advice to move him at last. He had seen Ellis morethan once in Chebasset, and felt uneasy; Pease looked in one afternoonand asked him to go up to the Blanchards'. As usual, Mather refused, butafter an hour he started up the hill, to be passed by Pease coming down.They were on different ways, for Mather had just left the high road fora path which would save distance, when looking back he saw Pease goingdown the hill. Pease wore a flower which he had not had before; he wassmiling cheerfully, with a retrospective air, and Mather smiled also,grimly as Miss Cynthia had done, at the thought of the late plant oflove springing in the barren soil of middle-age.

  He went on to the Blanchards' house; Judith was not there. But Bethwelcomed him and sat him down, gave him tea, and talked to him as he sathalf-silent.

  "People do not see much of you nowadays," she said with a tone ofreproach. "You are much too busy, George."

  "Oh, well----!" he shrugged inattentively, and Beth might interpret asshe pleased. She looked at him as he sat, with his chair against thepiazza railing, his arm across it, and his face turned to look out uponthe bay. He was neither gloomy nor resigned, but bore the look of astrong man waiting. Time was not of account to him.

  "You do not worry much," she said.

  "Not I," he answered, but he turned to her. "Is there anything to worryabout, little Beth?"

  "Sometimes I think so," she replied. "I think that now you'd better stayto dinner."

  "Thank you," he said, looking at her more carefully. "I suppose you knowbest," he added.

  There had never been anything between these two except undefinedgood-feeling, expressed only by the inattentive conversation of thosewho have often met in the same house with different interests. There hadexisted, besides, that consciousness of a difference in age which makesa few years seem almost a generation, so that with boys and girls "sets"are separated by a bar of habit which prevents an older from seeinganything in a younger, even after the passage of years has brought themboth to maturity. Thus, to Mather, Beth had always been a little girl,until just now her quiet, assured carriage, as she interfered in hisaffairs, opened his eyes. For she answered his last remark withconfidence.

  "Yes, I know best." And he believed her.

  "Talk to me," he said, turning still more toward her. "I have seen noone for a long time. Who is doing? What is doing?" So Beth talked tohim.

  This was her mission in life--to talk people into cheerfulness and bringthem nearer the rest of the world. She enjoyed it always, but it wasespecially pleasant to her as she spoke with Mather. For he was real, hewas big, he was not baulked by conditions which might have been too muchfor him. Estrangement from Judith was not, she was glad to see, makinghim melancholy. He seemed in good physical condition; though he had notgone much with people of late, she had seen him from her window, earlyin the morning, sailing on the bay before he went to his work. It wasnot Judith alone, therefore, but work also, that kept him from goingabout. All this she felt, or guessed, as she told him of little matters.

  "It is too bad," she said after a while. "You should have a mother, or asister, to tell you all this."

  "That Esther Fenno is away yachting, or that John Watson is attentive toMary Carr?" He laughed. "But, Beth, you shall be my sister of mercy, andI will come here oftener."

  "Come, then," she said. "Some day there will be better or more importantitems, and you may be glad of the bargain. Or if you happen to call onJudith when Mr. Ellis does, you may talk with me."

  "Couldn't he do that?" He maintained the appearance of jesting, but shesaid seriously:

  "I don't like him."

  Then he put out his hand to her; she took it, and Judith came upon themthus.

  A pang shot through him as he rose and greeted her; she was quiet in hermanner--his coming could not move her in the least. He wished he mightfeel that there had been a flash of inquiry in her first glance at himand Beth, but her face had not really changed. She welcomed him kindlyenough. "He is going to stay to dinner," said Beth. Judith answered witha conventional "Good!" Then the Colonel appeared; he had brought themail.

  "A letter for you, Judith," he said. "A thick package, rather."

  Thoughtlessly, she opened it. Ellis had promised to send her hishouse-plans, and for the purpose had had a set made, much reduced insize. He had mailed them to her himself; but for carelessness she wouldhave recognised his hand. The Colonel, always inquisitive, craned hisneck as Judith drew the plans from the envelope.

  "Plans!" he exclaimed. "Are you going into building, Judith?"

  She looked at the upper plan, carelessly as before, though the red cameinto her cheek. Then she put them all back into the paper. "No, I'm notgoing to build," she said.

  "This reminds me," said the Colonel. "They say Ellis has bought theWelton place."

  "Indeed!" cried Beth. Her glance sought Mather's; his responded,cynically humorous. That he should be there when the news was given! Buthe turned to the Colonel.

  "That must be very recent, sir."

  "It may not be so," replied he, "but Kingston is hopping for fury, andDent for fright, because they'll be his neighbours. Judith, do youhappen to know if the news is true?"

  In spite of herself, she looked at the floor. "Yes, it is true."

  "Aha!" cried the Colonel. "Then those plans----" She looked up now, andflashed him into silence.

  "I think," said Judith, "that I will go and dress for dinner." She went,and Beth went also, casting a glance of sympathy at Mather.

  "Will you come in?" asked the Colonel nervously of his guest.

  "I'll stay here, thank you. Don't let me keep you, sir."

  "Thanks. I think I will fix up."

  Mather smiled scornfully at the relief the Colonel showed. Alone, heleaned against a pillar and looked out over the bay. So this was whathe had come to learn! And being here, he must stay and put the matterthrough.

  It was a miserable meal. Judith was furious with her father; Beth wasappalled at the length to which matters appeared to have gone. Matherand the Colonel struggled manfully, and spoke of matters in the businessworld. The Colonel inclined toward the subject of stocks.

  "Consolidated," he suggested. "Don't you think it a good inve
stment?"

  "I am leaving silver alone," responded Mather. "I consider all thosestocks very unsafe just now, sir."

  So with that radical difference of opinion between them, which reallyconcerned the Colonel more than he would show, conversation languishedeven between the gentlemen. Out upon the piazza, after dinner, matterswent more smoothly, but Mather concluded that it was wiser to "eat andrun" than to stay where constraint hung in the air like a fog. So,pleading the habit of early sleep, he took his leave.

  Then Judith, fearing that he had been suffering, roused herself. "I willgo with you to the gate," she said, as he offered his hand for good-by.They left the piazza together, but Beth, catching his eye to signalsatisfaction, saw him shake his head. Judith's condescension could nolonger thrill him. Beth felt that his attitude, for one who was soconcerned, was strangely like that of an observer.

  And Judith felt it, too. He had passed through the stage of eagerhomage, a favour could no longer enrapture him; she wondered if he hadeven noticed the incident of the house-plans--whether, after all, he hadbeen hurt, so steadily he had borne himself. When they were alonetogether, walking toward the gate, he turned to her a gaze almostquizzical.

  "Have you forgiven me my chimney, Judith?"

  Thus he drew a smile from her; then, for the first time, he spoke ofhis mill, but left her no burden of answering. The walk was short,and he filled it with tales of his men, their weaknesses, theircharacteristics, the troubles which some of them had confided to him.But he said nothing of his difficulties or of his growing success,though as he talked she thought of them.

  "Does it not please you," she asked, "that people speak well of what youare doing?"

  "Do they?" was all he answered. "By the way----"

  "And the work of organisation?" she asked him.

  "It was fun," he said, "and not difficult at all."

  "I can't believe you!" she cried.

  "Nothing, nothing!" he answered.

  "And is all smooth sailing now?"

  "One of the men is getting up a strike," he answered. "That is all."

  "A strike!" she exclaimed.

  "So the older men tell me. A little one."

  "How can you take it so easily?" she asked.

  He smiled. "I think I can meet it. Well, here we are at the gate. Thankyou for coming, Judith. Good-by." He started away briskly, then turnedback. She was looking at him seriously.

  "Here is Jim Wayne coming up the road," he said. "He comes to see Beth?"

  "Yes."

  "And what of my employer?"

  "Poor Mr. Pease!"

  "_Mr._ Pease," repeated Mather. "There it all is in a nutshell. Jim isJim, twenty-three. Pease is Mr. Pease, forty-five. The young to theyoung, as Salvation Yeo said. Poor Pease! Good-night again, Judith."

  And this time he was off for good, not turning again. Judith returnedthoughtfully to the house. He had interested her--turned her back alittle toward her real self, her old self. No small part of the effecthe had made was caused by his cheerful self-command. Did he love herstill? She thought of what he had done for Chebasset. He was very muchof a man.

  On the way down the hill Mather passed Wayne. This was that broker'sclerk who always nodded to Ellis so carelessly, whose mother Ellis hadbought out, and whose name the promoter envied. Handsome, thought Matheras they greeted; on second thought he added, a bit weak. But Mrs.Harmon, looking from her garden as they passed on the road below,thought that Wayne was handsome without qualification. Thus those two,both of whom were to influence Wayne's fate, thought of him as he wenton to see Beth. Mrs. Harmon followed him with her eyes until he enteredthe Blanchards' gate; with her thoughts, still longer. Mather forgot himin grieving for Pease, the poor dreamer who would wake too late.

  "Beth," asked Judith, returning to the house, "where was it we readabout Salvation Yeo?"

  "In Kingsley's 'Westward Ho,'" answered Beth. After Wayne had come andgone, she noticed that Judith was reading the book.

  "Do you like it?" asked Beth.

  "Romance--love," said Judith. "It seems unnatural." She laid the bookaside. "A pleasant evening, Beth?"

  "Very," Beth answered.

  "And Mr. Pease?" asked Judith.

  She saw with surprise that Beth's eyes filled with tears. "What can Ido?" asked the younger sister; but expecting no answer, she went away.

  Judith took up her book again, yet held it without opening it. Romanceand love had come to Beth; why not to herself? Judith had had suitors;and true love might win her yet. Was it to be found? Such lasting love,she meant, as it was certain Pease would give. No wonder Beth grieved;any woman's heart would be touched by such devotion. Yet as Judiththought of her old suitors she could name half a dozen now married,having forgotten their griefs. But it was Mather who was most in hermind, who ever since his rejection had been so strangely independent,and this evening most of all. He had shown no surprise, no dismay, atthe sight of Ellis's house-plans. At the thought Judith started up withpique, resentment--it would have been hard to define her feeling at thethought that Mather needed no one to sorrow for him.