She had kept him, yes. He had not left her. But what remained with her now on that bed was a ruin, who believed nothing was of verity, nothing of importance or dignity or beauty, and who was dying of his knowledge.
Was it too late? she asked herself now, with bitter and rending anguish. Could anything convince Bertie that there was value in life, meaning, purpose, strength and truth? She did not believe these things, herself. She thought them absurd. But she was strong. She could live and enjoy life with zest and passion, because she found pleasure in every passing moment, and that pleasure was enough in itself, and a reason in itself. Bertie was “weak.” He must believe that grandeur and validity and a hidden meaning lay in life. When he no longer believed, then there was nothing for him in living.
Had Bertie lost all capacity to believe in the lovely lies which weak men had invented to conceal the truth? She must discover whether there was any hope for him, whether it was possible to arouse in him the falsehood that life is of value, and God is in His heaven, earnestly interested in the affairs of mankind.
She wiped her eyes, sighing deeply. She turned, and saw Robbie standing near her, watching her intently. She had not heard him enter. She could hardly see him now, in the thick dusk of the room, for his neat slight figure blended with the darkness.
She looked at him for a long moment, and he returned her look quietly. How she had always hated this “black one,” whom Bertie loved! How jealous she had been, out of her greediness! She-did not like Robbie any better now, but in him she saw some hope for Bertie. She stretched out her hand, and clenched it strongly on his slight arm. “I want to talk to you, Robbie,” she whispered.
She rustled out of the room, after one last look at Bertie, and Robbie followed. She went into her own apartments, and Robbie lit the lamps and stirred up the fire. Janie sat stiffly on a chair, wrapped in her shawl. She looked old and haggard and beaten. But her green eyes were glittering determinedly.
Robbie sat near her, and politely waited, one precise knee crossed over the other. She stared at him with intense thoughtfulness. Yes, she had always hated him. But she had always admired him, too. Of all her children, this was the only intelligent and reasonable one, the only one who was not befuddled by his emotions nor choked with his passions. He saw things clearly; he saw them whole. That is why he was never disturbed or agitated. He was the strong one.
She said abruptly: “Bertie is no better.”
“He is sleeping all right?”
“Yes. But when he recovers, he will be off again, after a few weeks.”
Robbie nodded reflectively, and with objective regret “Yes. I know.”
Janie said abruptly: “You’ve been close to him, Robbie. I’ve never asked you before. Is there anything we can do?”
Robbie was silent. He regarded his mother meditatively. She was a baggage, yes. But she was an honest woman, and demanded an honest answer.
He said: “No. I think not Perhaps you won’t understand this: but Bertie doesn’t want anything. He drinks because he finds nothing of value, and nothing he desires.”
To his great surprise his mother only dropped her head a little, and said, in a low tone: “Yes. I know. He is a weakling, Robbie.”
His surprise was so great that he could say nothing for a moment, and could only look at Janie with new respect. He finally spoke: “Yes, you are right. He is a weakling. He never had the wit, or the courage, to disbelieve you, Mama. He never tried to find out for himself. He trusted you. He never knew that no one should trust anyone else, about himself. Perhaps he never wanted to distrust you. It was easier to believe you.”
He expected her to look at him with outraged fury, to become abusive. But he was further surprised when her green eyes remained calmly desperate and honest.
“How right you are, Robbie. We know it now, that Bertie is a weakling, and wants nothing. It isn’t necessary for me to explain things to you. You are the only one of my children who has sense. You understand what I mean?”
“Yes, Mama.” He was suddenly very sorry for her, and felt very gentle towards her.
She spread out her hands in a gesture infinitely pathetic for the wiry Janie. “Robbie, what can we do?”
He got up then, and walked up and down the room, his head bent meditatively. His neat pale features were not loose and distorted as the features of men less strong and secure are apt to be under stress. Rather, they tightened, became smaller and clearer.
“I’ve given it a lot of thought, Mama,” he said, pausing before her, and looking at her with the respect and consideration which one accords to a mental equal. “I’ve thought of it for years. Candidly, I don’t think we can do anything. Even if you had given him his way about all his desires, I don’t know whether it would have helped. Weak people, who are given all their way, almost invariably end up in confusion, running about like rabbits from one heap of fodder to another, unable to make up their minds which to eat. They wander all over, dissatisfied, hungry, idle, confused, a burden to themselves, an expense and anxiety to others.”
She fixed her eyes on his, and a faint mournful smile settled on her thin and mobile lips. She shook her head a little. She sighed, smoothed out the fringe of her shawl. She said: “You persuaded me not to send him to Saratoga again. It would have helped him a little, prolonged his life and health. But you said I mustn’t.”
“No,” he said quietly, “you mustn’t. Why prolong his misery?”
She glanced up, very pale, very still. “That is a cruel thing to say, Robbie.” Now frantic grief leapt to her eyes again, and she started from her chair.
“We can keep him comfortable, and protected, Mama. That is all.”
He saw, suddenly and vividly, Bertie sitting under a tree with the green and watery light upon his face. That tree had lost its leaves twice now, but its dream-image remained, its leaves unshed, and Bertie under it, unchanged, “forever young.”
Now all of Robbie’s reason was swept away in an arching flood of pain. He cried: “Mama, let him alone! Let him go! I don’t know what I mean; I can’t make you understand because I don’t understand, myself! But I know we must let him go. That is what he wants. That is the only thing he wants, and it will be the last.”
CHAPTER 42
Angus Cauder was married to Miss Gretchen Schnitzel five days before Christmas, in an atmosphere of great pomp and circumstance. The wedding took place in the Bethlehem Lutheran Church in the presence of such a huge Teutonic gathering that the Celtic Cauders and Colemans felt completely alien. The Schnitzels had many cousins, aunts, nieces and nephews, all huge, bellicose, pouting and brutish, all of a bleached sameness of countenance and suspiciousness of dull eye. Further, they were all employees of more or less rank in Otto Schnitzel’s slaughter-house, and were very censorious with regard to Angus, darkly suspecting that he might be put in command over them. They were divided between an impulse to fawn upon him, as a future officer, or to condescend to him, as a junior in rank. Consequently they were assailed by that confusion which so often afflicts the Teuton: the equal impulses to oppress or to truckle.
Gretchen’s three brothers, Heinrich, Hans and Adolph, were there, as white, thick and short as herself, all in a state of porcine resentment and sullenness. They had tried to prevent this marriage, but their fatuous father had given his consent. They sat with their fat wives and offspring in the pews reserved for the bridal family, and glowered.
Among the guests were the Schnickelburgers and the Zimmermanns, curiously resembling the Schnitzels. Janie, looking at them all, commented to herself that she was lost among a barnyard of huge, scrubbed pigs, and that it would not surprise her if they suddenly broke out into a chorus of grunts, and drowned out the organ, or suddenly rose at the call of a distant farmer and galloped out, revealing cloven hoofs under their pantaloons and their skirts. It was appropriate, she thought, that they were almost all engaged in the slaughter-house business, in tanneries, or in sausage-making. Gross beasts! she thought, and looked at them with
sly contempt and disgust.
She was glad when the ceremony was over. It had, for Janie’s taste, too much the look of an innocent being sacrificed to Moloch.
The young couple went to live at the Franklin Street residence of the bride’s parents, a huge, turreted and completely hideous red-brick monstrosity, dank and narrow-hailed and gloomy, with tall, box-like rooms and black-marble fireplaces. The third floor had been fitted for their apartments, and was choked with black-walnut and cumbersome mahogany furniture, all crimson plush and horsehair, and red velvet draperies. Angus vanished into that house as into a tomb, and was not seen for three weeks, during which time he was doubtless enjoying his honeymoon. During the nights of those weeks, Janie ruefully and naughtily amused herself with many improper conjectures. When next she saw her son, she searched his face closely to discover any change there of a catastrophic nature. But Angus appeared the same, quietly and timidly arrogant, silent, grim and reserved, full of austere pride and coldness. Janie did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Her deep curiosity went unsatisfied.
Stuart, as Angus’ employer, was also invited, but had refused with great heartiness and precipitant enthusiasm. Not for him the smell of slaughter-houses, and the company of great beasts whom he both feared and detested. Father Houlihan thought it unkind of him. “Have you forgotten?” asked Stuart angrily. “Have you forgotten that Otto Schnitzel and his friends have introduced the Know-Nothings into Grandeville, and that it was their influence that caused those hoodlums to smash three of your best stained-glass windows four weeks ago, right in the middle of High Mass? They cost me five thousand dollars, those windows, and now you think I should have eaten at the table of those squealing hogs, and listened to their insulting remarks about you.”
It’s just ignorance,” pleaded the priest. “Ah, it was a bad thing, the breaking of those windows! The east one was my favorite. Such a pretty thing. But it’s just ignorance, I’m thinking, Stuart, and it will soon pass.”
“Grundy,” said Stuart, with fond irascibility, “you’re a darling fool.”
Father Houlihan was annoyed at this, as he had his own suspicions of himself. “You’re a damned insulting animal, Stuart!” he shouted. “Have ye no respect for my cloth? A fool, indeed!”
Stuart saw no change in Angus at the shops, except that the young man was stiffer than ever, and colder, and more silent. Stuart did not know whether or not he merely imagined it, but as the weeks went by it seemed to him that Angus was becoming thinner and paler, and more grim.
These Scots! thought Stuart. They can be drawn and quartered or burned at the stake, and they will utter only texts or empty words. He was angered with himself that he could still foolishly worry about the young man, whom he heartily disliked.
Late in the summer of 1860, less than a year after Angus’ marriage, Stuart received a rather incoherent note from Father Houlihan, asking him to call at the latter’s home.
Father Houlihan was quite aglow, and excited, and very mysterious. He aggravated Stuart’s impatience. He insisted that his sister serve the guest with seed-cake and tea, and proceeded to stuff his mouth with crumbly cake and twinkle at Stuart exultantly over his own tea-cup. Stuart resigned himself, and waited.
“Oh, come on, Grundy!” said Stuart, at last. “What the hell is it that you’ve got up your sleeve? Stop nodding your head like a confounded Punch and Judy, and tell me.”
Father Houlihan, replete and happy, leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands across his round belly. He eyed Stuart with excited delight. “You’d never guess, Stuart It’s really incredible.”
“Tell me. Let me be the judge.”
Father Houlihan deftly scooped up a handful of rich crumbs from his plate, and popped them into his mouth. “No one can equal Sarah’s cooking,” he remarked exasperatingly. “You must let her give you some to take home.”
Stuart regarded him darkly. “Come on, Grundy, what is it?”
But the priest would not be balked of his news by any haste in retailing it. He began a rambling talk about the new hospital, which Stuart had financed, the Hospital of the Sisters of Charity, close to the church of Our Lady of Hope. The fine new equipment which Stuart had bought had just arrived, and Dr. Malone, the chief of staff, was exceedingly proud of it, and very grateful to Stuart. Mother Mary Elizabeth wished Father Houlihan to express her gratitude, also, and her hope that Stuart might soon pay another visit to see the results of his generosity. “For a lady of her reticence she was very enthusiastic,” said Father Houlihan. He enlarged on her expression and her manner as she spoke of Stuart.
“That’s very kind of Mother Mary Elizabeth,” said Stuart impatiently. He, too, was much awed by the fine face and grand cold manner of the Mother Superior. “But you didn’t get me here to talk about her and old Malone?”
“In a way, yes,” said the irritating priest, with a smirk. Then he could not control himself. “Stuart, I think my prayers are about to be answered!”
“And what the hell,” asked Stuart, with elaborate and sighing patience, “have you been praying for now?”
Father Houlihan was hurt. “It isn’t a new prayer, Stuart. It’s an old one. About young Angus Cauder.”
Stuart stared at him wearily. “Again? What about Angus, the gray-faced Scots parson?”
Father Houlihan sat upright in his chair so swiftly that his big round face turned crimson. His bright-blue eyes sparkled elatedly. “You wouldn’t believe it, Stuart! But Angus visited the hospital about a month ago, for the first time, and in his shy way asked Dr. Malone if he could watch a few operations, and look about him!”
“No!” exclaimed Stuart, suddenly interested.
The priest nodded delightedly, pleased at Stuart’s interest. “Yes indeed. And since then he has dropped in at least three nights a week for an hour or so, and on Sunday, too. He borrows Dr. Malone’s medical books. He has been present at several operations. He visits the sick. And here is the best! Dr. Malone says his knowledge of medicine is amazing! He could almost practice on his own. He has had several talks with the other doctors, and it took much to convince them that he was not a physician, himself! I am not exaggerating. Dr. Malone was so impressed that he suggested that Angus study with him, and that in no time at all he could receive his diploma!”
Stuart was excited, himself. “No! And what did Angus say to that?”
Father Houlihan was suddenly deflated. He looked down at his shining black belly. He coughed. “Well, then, this is not so good, Stuart. He must have been frightened, or something. Anyway, after that he did not return to the hospital for over a week. Dr. Malone is a very clever man. He did not make the suggestion again. However, he allows Angus to examine the sick and to offer his own timid advice. Dr. Malone says that he has a marvelous way with the suffering, and that his suggestions are very acute and show a profound knowledge. Angus, says Dr. Malone, is very tender and absorbed, especially when with hopeless and suffering cases, and his very presence seems to bring cheer and hope to them. It’s almost a miracle, Dr. Malone says. The patients look for him. They call him ‘doctor.’ They say you wouldn’t recognize Angus, in the hospital. It’s a changed face he has, all aglow, and kind, and loving, and sure.”
“I’ll be damned!” cried Stuart. “Well, well! I have noticed that he does carry an armful of big books around with him, but we’re not very friendly, and I’ve never questioned him. Well, so that is the story!”
He looked at the priest. “What do we do now?” he asked practically.
“Nothing, Stuart. Nothing at all. He must find his own way, with God’s good help. Anything you might say to him would only frighten him, put him off, send him into a retreat which might be permanent. Let him find his own way. God will help him. Nothing is ever wasted, with God.”
Stuart had his very serious doubts about that, but he kept silent. He began to think, to offer suggestions. What if he, Stuart, talked to Janie? No, that would do no good at all. It was impossible to talk to Angus.
Robbie? He, Stuart, had acquired quite a respect for Robbie. No, it would be useless to talk to Robbie, who had a contempt for his elder brother, and hardly ever was found in his company.
“Let God do all this,” repeated Father Houlihan, who had a most annoying faith in the Deity, and a quite impractical one.
Stuart, who was a man of action, found this exasperating. He began to walk up and down the room, while Father Houlihan watched him anxiously, and pleaded that Angus must find his own way, with the help of God. Any interference would only ruin matters. The secret must be closely kept. If the Schnitzels found out that their son-in-law had private and odious dreams, they might destroy all hope for Angus. No one must know. And Angus must not know that his friends knew of his derelictions.
“What a struggle he must be having in himself!” said Stuart, gloomily.
“Yes, he is suffering, too, Stuart. But what man can resist the call of God? When God wills, man obeys, consciously or unconsciously.”
The next day Stuart encountered Angus in the shops, and studied him with guarded curiosity. How pale the sour devil was, and how gaunt! But nothing could have been stiffer or colder or prouder than that haggard face and those fixed gray eyes. Stuart frowned. He said: “Angus, have you heard from Laurie recently?”
“No, Stuart. I have not. Have you?”
“Yes, I received a letter only last Saturday. She says she is very happy in her school, with all the other young lady students. She is learning French and German and Italian at a great rate, and her voice is steadily improving. I have had a letter, too, from Professor Morelli, who says her progress is remarkable, and that she will be ready for Italy and Germany within a few months. A very good report for a girl so young, isn’t it?”
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