“Good night,” MacArd said shortly. He lifted his head and watched his son leave the room and then he sat for a long time in lonely thought.
It was the first really hot day of summer, and the two young men got out of the dusty train gratefully enough, although the ride had been so short. Darya looked about him with lively appreciation.
“These wooded hills, these empty valleys,” he exclaimed. “It’s a wilderness, and only an hour away from a vast city! I say, you know, David, some day it may seem to the rest of the world that you Americans haven’t any right to all this emptiness. Think how people are crowded together where I come from!”
“We don’t have such big families as you do,” David said. He was distressed to find that his relationship with Darya was changing subtly this morning. Darya was criticizing everything he saw, always gaily, to be sure, and surrounding his criticism with an embroidery of rapid flowing talk, simile and metaphor enriching every devastating word, but he felt that inwardly Darya was sitting as a judge upon him. He was puzzled and irritated, the more because Darya never went beyond the actual bounds of courtesy as a guest. Yet he presumed upon their affectionate relationship.
“Ah,” Darya exclaimed, “the old Anglo-Saxon argument, the reason given by every viceroy for not making an empire a benefit to my people, for what is the use of feeding the people when they simply increase their numbers? Starvation is inevitable, and indeed desirable, so the rulers say. It keeps the people obedient.”
“You cannot deny overpopulation,” David said.
“The argument of vicious and wilful ignorance,” Darya declared. “Have you ever observed a dying tree? When it knows that life is over, it blossoms in one frantic outburst of flower and seed, producing far more than normal, because, my friend, the law of nature, as you would call it, or Karma, as we call it with the same fateful meaning, is that though the individual dies, the species must not. Only when the species cannot reproduce, does it die. Our strength is that we can still reproduce, and so we have not perished from the face of the earth. We are still taught to respect our parents, to subdue our individual wills to the family good, else long before now would we have died as other peoples have died! ‘Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land’—that is also Christian, isn’t it?”
“You know I cannot argue against you, Darya,” David complained. “You are much too quick for me.”
“But you do not agree with me,” Darya exclaimed.
“Not always,” David admitted.
“Therefore you will never be convinced,” Darya persisted.
“Not against my will,” David replied.
“But your reason, your reason,” Darya cried with passion, “is there no way of reaching your reason, you white man?”
They stood on the platform of the little railroad station, forgetting where they were. The country station master passing by looked at them astonished, a white man and a Negro, he thought, getting mad at each other. He had better break it up. He spat tobacco juice.
“Anything I can do for you folks?”
David started. “Oh no, thanks. Come along, Darya. We are making a spectacle of ourselves.”
They turned their backs abruptly on the man, he spat again, and then chewed his cud, ruminating and shaking his head.
“We’ll walk,” David said. “It’s only two miles.”
They struck off up the river, mutually agreeing each in himself to give over their argument and enjoy the day. David was surprised to find how eagerly he wanted to see Olivia. He had thought of her a good deal in the night, seeing her dark handsome face clear against the curtains of his memory.
“This river makes me think of our Ganges,” Darya said in his usual amiable voice. “My father goes every year and brings back jars of its sacred water for us.”
“Now that I don’t understand,” David said. “Your father, yes, but you, Darya, no. Cambridge and the sacred Ganges—it doesn’t go together.”
Darya stopped. “Look at me,” he demanded. “Do you see my forehead? There is an invisible line here.” He drew his forefinger down from his hair to the bridge of his high and handsome nose. “On this side, the left side, the heart side, is my religion. On the other side, Cambridge, the modern world, science.”
“You keep them separate?”
“Separate and inviolate.”
“I can’t understand that—” David began.
“Do not try to understand,” Darya said. “Simply accept. Some long day hence the line may fade away. But science is far behind the intuitions of religion and until it overtakes faith, the line remains immovable.”
“You are content with this?” David asked.
“I must be content,” Darya declared, “for I can do nothing about it. If I were a scientist I would devote myself to removing the division, but I have no vocation for science. I am merely a man who waits.”
David did not reply. There was indeed no reply possible, for as usual Darya had led him beyond himself. He realized that his own mind until now had been wholly uncreative, absorbing what he had been taught, receiving what he was given. He had no valid opinions of his own, he was far less thoughtful than Darya, though they were so nearly the same age, and he was beginning to be made uncomfortable by his very presence. It was time the visit ended. In spite of pleasant companionship, Darya’s presence was becoming a reproach and a burden. He was not ready yet to ponder the large matters of the world and the universe, and perhaps not even of love. He wanted to live each day as it was given him, and he might like to remain as he was, simple-minded and not subtle. As an American, he distrusted subtlety, and he was beginning, he feared, to dislike it, even in Darya. Perhaps they had passed the point of understanding each other.
They walked along in silence, the sun was growing hot and near its zenith. They had breakfasted late and heartily and Darya had declared that he would not eat again until they reached home in the evening. American food, he said, he found too heavy, it remained too long in the intestines, and sometimes he fasted for a whole day. Now he walked more quickly than David, swinging along lightly and steadily, seeming not to notice heat or dust, until the river curved and the house was before them on the hill.
“There it is,” David said.
They stopped and looked up at it. “A fine place,” Darya observed. “So that is to be the cradle of the teachers who are to be sent to my people. Very American!”
David was suddenly angry. “I suppose the best that any people can give to another people is its own chosen men.”
“Is it to be reciprocal?” Darya demanded. “Would your people accept our men? If so, I offer myself. I will come here and preach our gospel, David, the gospel of the faith of our people. Will your father accept me, do you think?”
David turned on him. “Are you jesting?”
“Not at all,” Darya said. “I am in bitter earnest. Would it not be good sense to engage a man of India to prepare your young teachers for their pupils? Would it not be well for them to know the country to which they are sent? Seriously, seriously! Would I be welcome?”
The dart pricked its target. Darya knew his man, David was just and he could not lie.
Darya had flung the demand like a javelin and he stood, fists clenched, his jaw upthrust. David stepped back. Before either could speak they heard a girl’s voice.
“David MacArd! What a surprise!”
It was Olivia. She was coming up from the river, where she had been swimming. Her skirted bathing suit was wet and her long hair, dripping with river water, hung down her back. Because she was alone she had not put on bathing stockings and she wore only sandals. The sun shone on her wet arms and neck, on her wet face and eyelashes, glistening and lovely.
The two young men forgot themselves and David spoke first, “Olivia, this is Darya, my friend from India. Darya, this is Miss Dessard.”
“Olivia,” Darya said. “You will allow me to use the name, since David is my brother.”
Olivia pu
t out her hand. “I am glad to see you. My grandfather has told me about India many times. He visited there once. Come to the house.”
They walked together, Olivia between, until the path up the hill separated them, and then she led the way, Darya followed and David was last. It was easy to see that Darya was impressed by the dark self-possessed girl, and that Olivia was enlivened by Darya. At the top of the hill David came forward and she was between them again, Darya and Olivia talking rapidly and constantly, and he had never heard her talk like this nor seen her so free. He was suddenly intensely jealous. Darya was able to make her so free, while with him she had been shy and almost silent. His heart throbbed and love crystallized with a shock. He wished that he had not brought Darya here to see her wakened like this, aware and eager and outgoing, laughing and talking as though she had always known the Indian. He walked along, helpless, and she led the way into the house. “Go into the drawing room, please,” she said in her clear imperious voice, though amazingly gay. “Mother will be down, and I must go and change. We don’t have tea every day as we used to, but there are wine and biscuits on the table, please help yourselves.”
She ran up the stairs as lithely as a young tigress. Darya led the way into the drawing room and poured the wine, as much at home as if this were his house. He handed the goblet to David and then the plate of biscuits.
“My friend,” he said in a low intense voice, “if you do not marry this girl, you are a fool! She is not only handsome, she is a free spirit and an intelligence. I envy you!”
David took the wine and broke a biscuit in his hand. Then he put up his shield of defense against Darya and his magnetic charm. “I have every intention of marrying her,” he said, and was astonished at his own coolness as he made the spectacular decision.
That night when they reached home he continued in a daze, a mood vague and immense. He had been almost silent when Olivia came downstairs, he had not listened to the renewed and ardent talk of Darya, who devoted himself to the beautiful girl. He had talked desultorily with Mrs. Dessard, listening to her complaints of moving and storage and he had not heard anything that Darya said all the way home. The golden stream of enthusiastic words went on and on, Darya unceasing in his praise of the wonderful girl, her grace, the pride of her noble head, her long thin hands, the strength in her, the incomparable latent power.
“It will take courage to be her husband, you understand,” he said ardently, “but a task how enticing! You must be strong, too, David, you must find a source of power for yourself—”
“Well,” MacArd said at the dinner table, “how are the buildings getting on?”
The two young men looked at each other, stricken, and Darya began to laugh.
David flushed scarlet. “Father, we forgot to look at them.”
“Forgot to look at them!” MacArd echoed, astounded.
“Yes—we got to talking with—”
“With Olivia,” Darya said.
“Miss Dessard,” David said under his breath.
MacArd stared at them from under heavy brows.
“Well,” he said, “well, well, well!”
David did not explain, and Darya hastened to protect him.
“The setting, Mr. MacArd, is divine in itself, a place inevitably to turn the thoughts of men to the Infinity, a site for the soul—”
“That is what it is for,” MacArd agreed. “I am glad you understand my idea.”
Darya’s instinct told him that it was time for him to leave David and continue his westward way. He had curiosity to see some of the sights of America, he wished also to see the black people of the South, and he planned to sail from California. No more was said about Olivia for he divined that David did not wish to talk about her and this reserve settled like a fog over their whole relationship.
“My friend, I must return to India,” Darya said one morning. “It has been weeks since I came, how many I have forgotten, the year is passing and there is much I wish to do. My father asked me to be home again by mid-autumn and so I must not delay, however happy I have been.”
“You must come again,” David said.
“You must come to India,” Darya replied. He wished to add, “Perhaps on your wedding journey,” but he did not. To force a confidence was as unrewarding as pulling open a lotus flower. Neither scent nor beauty was the reward.
David smiled without answering and he stayed near Darya all day while he packed. Darya, who could be as lazy as a beautiful woman when he chose, became a man of action when he had made up his mind. He put his belongings in order, the few gifts he had chosen for his family, small but expensive, a gold bracelet set with diamonds for his wife, a diamond sunburst brooch for his mother, for his father a set of Audubon prints of American birds, so different from those in the countryside about Poona, and for his sons small strong mechanical toys. For brothers and sisters, cousins and uncles and aunts he bought watches.
By night of the next day he was ready, his bags packed, and David went with him to the train. Darya would not allow any atmosphere of farewell. “There is neither beginning nor end to our friendship,” he declared. “It was before we were born, and it will never end, unless we choose to separate ourselves, which I will not do.”
“Nor I,” David said.
As cheerfully as though they were to meet the next morning Darya stepped into the train, settled himself and waved his hand from the window. They had stayed to talk until the last minute, idle talk, friendly and not profound, as though both agreed that at this late hour there must be no new revelations between them, and the train left almost immediately, and David was driven away again. His father had not come home to dinner that night, he had telephoned that he would be late, and David climbed the stairs to his own rooms. The house was now very empty, the silence oppressive. He had scarcely thought of his mother for so many weeks that he could no longer summon her presence and he had no desire to do so. The rooms were filled with the echoes of Darya’s lively presence, his modulated voice, his rapid talk, and yet he did not wish Darya back.
He went into his own rooms and closed the door. He would go to see Olivia, he would simply go, on the pretext of looking at the buildings, and then he would make the opportunity to ask her to marry him. He felt an immense hunger, a hollowness of the heart and only the one name sounded its echoes, Olivia.
She was not easily found. He wandered about the roofless buildings, his eyes meanwhile searching for her and not finding her. The walls were rising above foundations and six new buildings were set in the woods about the pillared house, skilfully placed so that each seemed alone and yet part of the whole.
The famous New York architect his father had engaged was treading the raw upturned earth with dainty feet, a blue print stretched between his hands. He greeted David gaily, beckoned to him and led him to a spot where the buildings were revealed in a magnificent perspective about the central mansion.
“The approach,” the architect said proudly. “I have had exactly the proper trees cut away. The effect is good, don’t you think? Spiritual, and yet solid! I have kept in mind the purpose your father has in the memorial. The house is the memorial center, the source let us say, the altar, so to speak. Around it the young men group themselves with their teachers. The inspiration comes from the center.”
He was a finicking little man, precise in speech, his black-ribboned pince-nez dangling from his buttonhole, but he was enthusiastic and David was compelled to admit that there was an effect and the new buildings were subdued to the lofty nobility of the main house.
“Very beautiful,” he said, knowing it was expected of him.
The little man was gratified. “Please tell your distinguished father,” he begged. “Mr. MacArd is a man difficult to please, but so worthy of being pleased. I wish to make every effort.”
David said, “I’ll tell him I like it very much.”
“Thank you, thank you—” the little man said.
David nodded and walked away. It was now nearly noon and he ha
d not seen Olivia. He must find her, since she had not allowed herself to be found. He went to the house. The door as usual was open and the vista of wide rooms lay before him with no sign of Olivia. Fresh flowers were in the vases and she must be near, but he did not see her. He lifted the heavy knocker, struck it three times, and Mrs. Dessard’s voice floated out from the kitchen.
“Who is it?”
He stepped inside and went toward the voice. “It is I, Mrs. Dessard. I came to see the buildings for my father, and before I go back I thought I’d—” He opened the kitchen door. “What a heavenly fragrance!”
“Grapes,” Mrs. Dessard said. She stood by the stove, a tiny dignified figure, stirring a long spoon in a large pot. “Olivia is picking them and I am making jelly. It’s hot work.”
The weight lifted itself from his heart. “I wish I could help you,” he said with sudden gaiety, “but since I can’t make jelly perhaps I had better pick grapes.”
Mrs. Dessard did not answer for a few seconds, then she said without looking at him, “Olivia will be glad of help. At least, I suppose she will. You can’t always tell about her.”
“I’ll try, anyway,” he said.
He hastened into the hall again and out the back door which stood open to the small formal garden. Olivia had made a wonder here, the box trees were clipped, the flower beds weeded, and early chrysanthemums were beginning to blossom in red and white and yellow. He followed the paths and turned to the left through a yew gateway into the kitchen garden, and there he saw Olivia among the grapevines and shielded against the sun by a wide leghorn hat. Pilate the peacock walked beside her, his tail in full display. She did not see David, or hear him, and he stood for a minute, enjoying the picture of her beside the gorgeous bird. She had on a yellow cotton frock and the full skirt flowed about her on the ground. He could see her profile, earnest above her task, the dark hair escaping to her neck and her fingers nimble among the vines. She plucked a large purple grape and put it in her mouth.
“Is it good?” he called.
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