"It's the people you confide in who might be indiscreet."
"I won't even tell the other members of the firm."
"I wish," Robert said, "that there were a way for you to avoid even telling yourself."
"My ears shall not hear what my lips pronounce." Royal grinned. "Who is the man?"
"John Kirkham."
Royal wrote it down. "Last name spelled the same as yours?"
"Yes. And the pub is called St. Vine."
"A pub or a church?"
"From the look of him, definitely a pub. But tell your friend not to ask about him there. This fellow's friends might be primed to tell a false story. Instead he should locate that pub, and then go to all the pubs in the vicinity except that one, and ask about John Kirkham, the painter."
"What does he look like?"
"Like me. Only older, dirtier, and poorer."
Royal did not ask; he did not have to. Robert had found his father.
A week later, Robert came home from work to find Dinah there, visiting. He was always glad to see her, but there was an awkwardness now. Not because she had become a Mormon. The strain was because of he incident with Matthew. It should perhaps have brought them closer together, but the very fact that Robert had intervened in her marriage made him, now, her superior; they both felt it. And Robert felt something else, too -- that every blow Matthew had struck was Robert's fault. After all, he had forced her into the marriage, hadn't he? It had been the best way, the only alternative, but Robert knew that Dinah would never see it that way, any more than Charlie would ever forgive him for apprenticing him to the chimney-sweep. It seemed that the family always depended on Robert to save them from disaster, but then hated him for whatever that salvation cost. Nevertheless, Robert would not shirk his duty, just because he went unthanked for it. Robert was not John Kirkham. He would fulfil his responsibilities whether anyone liked it or not.
"Father's home," Dinah said.
"Such as he is," Robert said. He had received one letter already from the London solicitor, and the mere thought of his father made him angry.
"You knew?"
"He came to me first."
She looked surprised. Of course John wouldn't have mentioned it.
"I gave him a guinea," Robert said, "and he went away."
Dinah's face went cold. "A guinea?"
So it had already progressed so far that Dinah would be angry at him for demeaning the man by treating him like a beggar. "He'll have no more from me than that."
"It isn't money he wants." Dinah said.
"No doubt he came for love and forgiveness."
"Strange as it may seem to you, yes."
"And he's probably told you that he wants to become a Mormon, like you."
Dinah raised an eyebrow. "And why not? It is the gospel of Jesus Christ, and the only way a man can receive forgiveness."
Robert could not help but laugh a little. "I thought you had a better mind than that, Dinah, religion or no religion. Don't you see that he's doing exactly what he would do if he were trying to get your money?"
"He's also doing exactly what he would do if he had had a true change of heart."
"That is a problem. Did you know that he was an adulterer in London?"
Dinah pursed her lips and nodded. "So you've been spying -- "
"I've been making inquiries."
"He is your father, Robert."
"I grew up as an orphan and did rather well. He should have stayed in London and been grateful that we managed to survive his crime against us."
"And how would he have known it?"
Robert showed her the London newspaper articles. She was unimpressed. "You don't know that he saw those, Robert."
"These articles appear, and a few days later he's at my factory gate. It is difficult to believe it was just chance."
Dinah got up and began walking toward the door.
"Dinah!"
She stopped and waited, but did not turn to face him.
"In the name of God, Dinah, don't you know I only want to protect you?"
She turned around, her face softer now. "I know it, Robert. But just because you've chosen to hate your father doesn't mean that I must choose to hate him, too."
"Dinah, he hasn't changed. He was drunken scum in London, and he'll be the same here."
Dinah smiled. "And you, you're a doffer in a sweatshop."
"If you'd only listen to me when I warn you, Dinah, I wouldn't have to step in and save you later, when you're in trouble."
"You don't have to save me."
"What, will Father protect you now?"
She knew -- he could see that. She knew he was right about John Kirkham. But she wouldn't admit it. It was that damnable religion of hers. She had to forgive him, because Jesus would have. Well, Jesus ended up dead. That was the way it was with all gentle, weak people. And damn few of them got resurrected, either. It was only beneficent power -- law, money, prestige -- that kept trusting fools alive. Only people like Robert. And damn little thanks he got for it, either. Well, he didn't do it for the thanks. While Dinah and Charlie were going around being godly, Robert would reach out his hand and set a few things straight in the world. A few things straight, and then the world would be better because Robert Kirkham had lived in it.
Dinah heard Robert's carriage outside, saw through the window as it slowed to a stop. She reached for her teacup to finish drinking it before Robert came in. It would be a nasty little meeting, but she knew she was more than a match for Robert -- he always resorted to shouting, and she could always defeat his shouting with her silence.
Then she saw through the window that Robert was not alone. He had a small boy with him. For a moment she tried to recognize him as one of Robert's boys. He had the family look, after all. But it was not one of Robert's sons. Dinah was not a fool. Robert had asked them to be there so he could call upon them. Robert wanted a battle -- and he had brought a weapon. There was no doubt in Dinah's mind who the child was. Robert was armed for war, and Dinah wondered how she would fend his attack.
Anna opened the door. "Robert," she said. Then she saw the child, and thought she recognized him. Thought she recognized him, realized that she had never seen him before, and then knew she recognized him after all, and did not want to.
"What are you here for?" she asked.
"May Corey and I come in?"
Anna backed up, opening the door. Robert led the boy into the cottage. The boy hung back, stood behind him. Robert looked around. Dinah sat placidly at the table, sipping her tea: Robert's eyes met hers for a moment; then he looked away. The battle would be between the two of them, at the end. But for now he would pretend that the fight was between him and his father.
John Kirkham also sat at the table -- but not at the head. Robert noticed that at once, with rueful pleasure. Charlie sat at the head of the table. He might have accepted his father home, but he would never relinquish place to him. For once Robert felt a bit of respect for his younger brother. There were ways, after all, that they were alike.
"What did you come for?" Charlie asked. The tone was so belligerent that Robert's good feeling melted away.
"I came because I thought it would be good for all of John Kirkham's children to be together." And he pulled Corey forward, put his hand on the boy's shoulder, and looked squarely into John Kirkham's eyes.
"Corey," John said. "Thank God." The man got up from his chair and came to the boy, arms outstretched. "I was so afraid for you."
It was a gamble. Robert depended on Corey's pride, on his loathing for the man who had left him a few weeks ago, without a word or any means of living. And Corey did not let him down. When his father reached him, Corey shrank back, clung to Robert's leg, and turned his face away from the man who had sired him. John looked at, him with the face of failure.
"I have the papers," Robert said. "He's my son now." Robert looked at the others gravely. "His story is a sad one. His father, who never bothered to marry his mother, abandoned him
only a few weeks ago. Not a word did he say, not a penny did he leave. The boy was hungry, and his mother was desperate. But I promised to raise Corey as my own child, with education, with every advantage he could possibly have. I promised that I would never abandon him. And I never will. What would you think of me, sir, if I abandoned him now, after such a promise?"
John Kirkham looked him in the eye. Robert tried to imagine what was going on in his father's mind. Tried to imagine the calculations. How much damage had this revelation done? How should he respond to this discovery of his second abandonment of a family? And, as Robert expected, he chose the best of all possible responses. He turned away from Robert, flung himself to a chair, buried his face in his arms, and wept loudly, piteously crying, "O God, I should have known you wouldn't let me hide my sins from thee!"
John knew his audience well. By accusing himself, he forestalled their accusations; by calling upon God, he reminded them to be forgiving. But Robert was determined not to let him get away with it.
"He saw in the newspapers that I was rich. He came to me first, came to my factory gate. Did he tell you that?" He saw from their faces that he had not. Only Dinah had known it, and only because Robert had told her. "And what did he confess to you? Adultery, yes? For that you could forgive him, apparently, God knows how; it happened far away. But he told you he repented of his sins, didn't he? Told you he was a changed man, that he would never abandon a family now, right? What kind of change is it, when he abandons the family that needs him, to come back to a family that long since learned to live without him?"
John arose from the table, his face a mask of righteous indignation. "I was weighed down by the sin of my adultery! I could bear no longer living in sin!"
"You could bear no longer living in poverty."
"You have reason to hate me and be cruel to me. I understand, Robert, and for Jesus' sake I forgive you for it."
"By God you'll forgive me for nothing. You no more believe in Jesus than you believe in fatherhood. Here we stand, John Kirkham. Your sons. Look at us -- we wear your face, we bear your name. But behind the name and the flesh there's no part of you in us. Because we value honor above any other thing, Corey and I. And you'll never trick us into forgiving you, however you play the penitent."
"All I know," Anna said in a husky voice, "all I know is that I prayed for God to bring him back, and back he came."
"And too bad if he let another child starve to do it."
"But don't you see?" Anna said. "God provided a way for the child to be cared for."
"I beg your pardon. I provided the way."
"Who are you to judge your father!" Anna shouted.
"There are many low things a man can do, and still remain a man. But lower than manhood are these: To rut with a woman when he already has a wife, and to abandon the children of his body."
"There are worse sins," Charlie said quietly.
"How would you know?" Robert asked. "You've never had a wife, you've never had a child. If you had, you'd feel as I do."
At that Charlie fell silent, but Robert regretted every word of it. He knew then that he had made a mistake. Yes, he had silenced Charlie by telling him he was not yet fully a man -- but he had also assumed that Charlie would oppose him, and that meant Charlie might, after all, forgive the old bastard. And yet Charlie wasn't the only one there. If he could at least get Dinah to side with him, if he could at least awaken her to the truth, then John Kirkham wouldn't have his victory. If Dinah wasn't for the man, he'd never truly have his place in the family -- such was her power there, and Robert knew it. So he spoke to her, only to Dinah, desperate to keep her unbeguiled.
"Remember this, when he tells you he repents. Didn't he seem sorry before? Didn't he confess his sins before? And yet it was all a lie, because he didn't tell you this. And wouldn't have told you this, if I hadn't forced him."
Dinah was looking at John Kirkham, studying her father's face. And John studied her in turn, trying to think of some way to save his comfortable place in this house. For a moment Robert thought he couldn't do it, that with Dinah his cause was lost.
But he had underestimated John. Suddenly he groaned, a powerful cry of agony that came from the heart. "God will not be mocked!" he cried. "Oh, God, I can't bear it! Destroy me! Annihilate me! I cannot bear to live in thy presence!" And he flung himself backward, crashing to the floor, smacking his head loudly on the boards.
Anna screamed and rushed to him, crying out his name. Charlie also came to lift his father and carry him to the divan. But Dinah sat at the table, staring at nothing until she looked at Robert and at Corey. Then she smiled wanly. She was not fooled, was she? No -- she saw through the old bastard.
But the others didn't. Or chose not to. For whether John really knocked himself unconscious or not, he certainly revived with his wits about him. "Cleanse me," he whispered. "Take me into the water and let me be clean." Then he opened his eyes. Charlie, my sins are darker than I can bear! Will you baptize me? Will you make me clean before the Lord?"
"Yes," Charlie said. "I will."
"Wash manure," Robert said, "and it's still shit."
Dinah walked over to her father, took him by the hand, helped him up. "Come, Father. Robert's leaving now."
Robert looked at her in amazement. She smiled at him. "You just don't understand, do you, Robert? It is the weakest soul who needs help the most."
"Dinah, you know what he is!"
"I also know what he can be."
"He'll never change."
"There's always hope." She touched him gently on the arm, then touched young Corey on the cheek. "My brother. Remember this -- there's always hope, even when there isn't any faith. And sometimes, without hope or faith, there must be charity."
Corey looked up at her dumbly. Robert was no less speechless. He turned and left the house, beaten. Beaten by Anna's love for her husband, Charlie's hatred for Robert, and Dinah's damnable patience. She could wait for anything. There was no helping it, then. As always, they wouldn't trust in Robert until it was too late, until John Kirkham had betrayed them again. And, as always, Robert found himself cut off from the rest of his family, not because he had done them harm, but because he had tried to do them good. That is the way of the world, isn't it -- if you want to be hated, be kind.
22
Charlie and Sally Manchester, 1840
Charlie was not abnormal: he thought about women about as often as any young man was likely to. So it wasn't that Robert's taunting words put the idea in his head. Rather Charlie realized that he wasn't really a man, wasn't really one of the full-fledged brethren until he had a wife. He would not be adult until then. And he was certainly ready to be adult.
So now instead of merely appreciating a well-formed bosom or a lovely gliding step, instead of comparing the relative virtues of a heart-shaped face or dark, flashing eyes, he began to consider what he must have in a wife. Charlie was sure of one thing -- his wife would have to know how to comport herself in elevated society. He would have money, of course, and his wife would not be an awkward homebody like Robert's Mary. She must have grace, refinement, and above all an accent more redolent of Middlesex than of Lancashire. Of course she would be beautiful, have an unbounded admiration for Charlie's accomplishments and abilities, and be content with a reasonable wardrobe.
And one other requirement. She must be a Saint. That narrowed the field considerably. He studied the unmarried sisters and despaired. None of them would make a proper wife for the sort of man he was destined to become. Least of all Sally Clinton. He decided that right at first. It was well known that she was the most beautiful girl in the Manchester Branch, but it was the wrong kind of beauty. Her face was pretty and soft, but not refined and delicate; she was small, but her body was too sturdy and strong. She was made to endure love and hard labor; Charlie needed a woman whom poems could be written about.
Once he had decided that Sally was definitely not fit to be the object of his affections, he was free to be friends with
her. She was good company after church meetings. She had a quick mind and they could argue cleverly for the entertainment of the other young people in the Branch. Inevitably, whenever both Charlie and Sally were in the room, they were together, with everyone else gathered around them, laughing. Not always laughing, though. They could slide easily from cleverness to quiet, serious conversation about the gospel, their ideas building on each other until they were sure that the Spirit of God must be inspiring them. Good times, with the excitement of being new Mormons and young all at once.
And best of all was the fact that Charlie and Sally were just friends. Charlie even mentioned it to her when they were, for once, alone in a corner of the meetinghouse. "We have something very rare between us," he said.
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