“Squire Gaylord!” cried Bartley, “upon my sacred word of honor, there isn’t any more of this thing than I’ve told you. And I think it’s pretty hard to be thrown over for — for—”
“Fooling with a pretty girl, when you get a chance, and the girl seems to like it? Yes, it is rather hard. And I suppose you haven’t even seen her since you were engaged to Marcia?”
“Of course not! That is—”
“It’s a kind of retroactive legislation on Marcia’s part,” said the Squire, rubbing his chin, “and that’s against one of the first principles of law. But women don’t seem to be able to grasp that idea. They’re queer about some things. They appear to think they marry a man’s whole life, — his past as well as his future, — and that makes ’em particular. And they distinguish between different kinds of men. You’ll find ’em pinning their faith to a fellow who’s been through pretty much everything, and swearing by him from the word go; and another chap, who’s never done anything very bad, they won’t trust half a minute out of their sight. Well, I guess Marcia is of rather a jealous disposition,” he concluded, as if Bartley had urged this point.
“She’s very unjust to me,” Bartley began.
“Oh, yes, — she’s unjust,” said her father. “I don’t deny that. But it wouldn’t be any use talking to her. She’d probably turn round with some excuse about what she had suffered, and that would be the end of it. She would say that she couldn’t go through it again. Well, it ought to be a comfort to you to think you don’t care a great deal about it.”
“But I do care!” exclaimed Bartley. “I care all the world for it. I—”
“Since when?” interrupted the Squire. “Do you mean to say that you didn’t know till you asked her yesterday that Marcia was in love with you?”
Bartley was silent.
“I guess you knew it as much as a year ago, didn’t you? Everybody else did. But you’d just as soon it had been Hannah Morrison, or any other pretty girl. You didn’t care! But Marcia did, you see. She wasn’t one of the kind that let any good-looking fellow make love to them. It was because it was you; and you knew it. We’re plain men, Mr. Hubbard; and I guess you’ll get over this, in time. I shouldn’t wonder if you began to mend, right away.”
Bartley found himself helpless in the face of this passionless sarcasm. He could have met stormy indignation or any sort of invective in kind; but the contemptuous irony with which his pretensions were treated, the cold scrutiny with which his motives were searched, was something he could not meet. He tried to pull himself together for some sort of protest, but he ended by hanging his head in silence. He always believed that Squire Gaylord had liked him, and here he was treating him like his bitterest enemy, and seeming to enjoy his misery. He could not understand it; he thought it extremely unjust, and past all the measure of his offence. This was true, perhaps: but it is doubtful if Bartley would have accepted any suffering, no matter how nicely proportioned, in punishment of his wrong-doing. He sat hanging his head, and taking his pain in rebellious silence, with a gathering hate in his heart for the old man.
“M-well!” said the Squire, at last, rising from his chair, “I guess I must be going.”
Bartley sprang to his feet aghast. “You’re not going to leave me in the lurch, are you? You’re not—”
“Oh, I shall take care of you, young man, — don’t be afraid. I’ve stood your friend too long, and your name’s been mixed up too much with my girl’s, for me to let you come to shame openly, if I can help it. I’m going to see Dr. Wills about you, and I’m going to see Mrs. Bird, and try to patch it up somehow.”
“And — and — where shall I go?” gasped Bartley.
“You might go to the Devil, for all I cared for you,” said the old man, with the contempt which he no longer cared to make ironical. “But I guess you better go back to your office, and go to work as if nothing had happened — till something does happen. I shall close the paper out as soon as I can. I was thinking of doing that just before you came in. I was thinking of taking you into the law business with me. Marcia and I were talking about it here. But I guess you wouldn’t like the idea now.”
He seemed to get a bitter satisfaction out of these mockeries, from which, indeed, he must have suffered quite as much as Bartley. But he ended, sadly and almost compassionately, with, “Come, come! You must start some time.” And Bartley dragged his leaden weight out of the door. The Squire closed it after him; but he did not accompany him down the street. It was plain that he did not wish to be any longer alone with Bartley, and the young man suspected, with a sting of shame, that he scorned to be seen with him.
VIII.
The more Bartley dwelt upon his hard case, during the week that followed, the more it appeared to him that he was punished out of all proportion to his offence. He was in no mood to consider such mercies as that he had been spared from seriously hurting Bird; and that Squire Gaylord and Doctor Wills had united with Henry’s mother in saving him from open disgrace. The physician, indeed, had perhaps indulged a professional passion for hushing the matter up, rather than any pity for Bartley. He probably had the scientific way of looking at such questions; and saw much physical cause for moral effects. He refrained, with the physician’s reticence, from inquiring into the affair; but he would not have thought Bartley without excuse under the circumstances. In regard to the relative culpability in matters of the kind, his knowledge of women enabled him to take much the view of the woman’s share that other women take.
But Bartley was ignorant of the doctor’s leniency, and associated him with Squire Gaylord in the feeling that made his last week in Equity a period of social outlawry. There were moments in which he could not himself escape the same point of view. He could rebel against the severity of the condemnation he had fallen under in the eyes of Marcia and her father; he could, in the light of example and usage, laugh at the notion of harm in his behavior to Hannah Morrison; yet he found himself looking at it as a treachery to Marcia. Certainly, she had no right to question his conduct before his engagement. Yet, if he knew that Marcia loved him, and was waiting with life-and-death anxiety for some word of love from him, it was cruelly false to play with another at the passion which was such a tragedy to her. This was the point that, put aside however often, still presented itself, and its recurrence, if he could have known it, was mercy and reprieve from the only source out of which these could come.
Hannah Morrison did not return to the printing-office, and Bird was still sick, though it was now only a question of time when he should be out again. Bartley visited him some hours every day, and sat and suffered under the quiet condemnation of his mother’s eyes. She had kept Bartley’s secret with the same hardness with which she had refused him her forgiveness, and the village had settled down into an ostensible acceptance of the theory of a faint as the beginning of Bird’s sickness, with such other conjectures as the doctor freely permitted each to form. Bartley found his chief consolation in the work which kept him out of the way of a great deal of question. He worked far into the night, as he must, to make up for the force that was withdrawn from the office. At the same time he wrote more than ever in the paper, and he discovered in himself that dual life of which every one who sins or sorrows is sooner or later aware: that strange separation of the intellectual activity from the suffering of the soul, by which the mind toils on in a sort of ironical indifference to the pangs that wring the heart; the realization that, in some ways, his brain can get on perfectly well without his conscience.
There was a great deal of sympathy felt for Bartley at this time, and his popularity in Equity was never greater than now when his life there was drawing to a close. The spectacle of his diligence was so impressive that when, on the following Sunday, the young minister who had succeeded to the pulpit of the orthodox church preached a sermon on the beauty of industry from the text “Consider the lilies,” there were many who said that they thought of Bartley the whole while, and one — a lady — asked Mr. Savin if he
did not have Mr. Hubbard in mind in the picture he drew of the Heroic Worker. They wished that Bartley could have heard that sermon.
Marcia had gone away early in the week to visit in the town where she used to go to school, and Bartley took her going away as a sign that she wished to put herself wholly beyond his reach, or any danger of relenting at sight of him. He talked with no one about her; and going and coming irregularly to his meals, and keeping himself shut up in his room when he was not at work, he left people very little chance to talk with him. But they conjectured that he and Marcia had an understanding; and some of the ladies used such scant opportunity as he gave them to make sly allusions to her absence and his desolate condition. They were confirmed in their surmise by the fact, known from actual observation, that Bartley had not spoken a word to any other young lady since Marcia went away.
“Look here, my friend,” said the philosopher from, the logging-camp, when he came in for his paper on the Tuesday afternoon following, “seems to me from what I hear tell around here, you’re tryin’ to kill yourself on this newspaper. Now, it won’t do; I tell you it won’t do.”
Bartley was addressing for the mail the papers which one of the girls was folding. “What are you going to do about it?” he demanded of his sympathizer with whimsical sullenness, not troubling himself to look up at him.
“Well, I haint exactly settled yet,” replied the philosopher, who was of a tall, lank figure, and of a mighty brown beard. “But I’ve been around pretty much everywhere, and I find that about the poorest use you can put a man to is to kill him.”
“It depends a good deal on the man,” said Bartley. “But that’s stale, Kinney. It’s the old formula of the anti-capital-punishment fellows. Try something else. They’re not talking of hanging me yet.” He kept on writing, and the philosopher stood over him with a humorous twinkle of enjoyment at Bartley’s readiness.
“Well, I’ll allow it’s old,” he admitted. “So’s Homer.”
“Yes; but you don’t pretend that you wrote Homer.”
Kinney laughed mightily; then he leaned forward, and slapped Bartley on the shoulder with his newspaper. “Look here!” he exclaimed, “I like you!”
“Oh, try some other tack! Lots of fellows like me.” Bartley kept on writing. “I gave you your paper, didn’t I, Kinney?”
“You mean that you want me to get out?”
“Far be it from me to say so.”
This delighted Kinney as much as the last refinement of hospitality would have pleased another man. “Look here!” he said, “I want you should come out and see our camp. I can’t fool away any more time on you here; but I want you should come out and see us. Give you something to write about. Hey?”
“The invitation comes at a time when circumstances over which I have no control oblige me to decline it. I admire your prudence, Kinney.”
“No, honest Injian, now,” protested Kinney. “Take a day off, and fill up with dead advertisements. That’s the way they used to do out in Alkali City when they got short of help on the Eagle, and we liked it just as well.”
“Now you are talking sense,” said Bartley, looking up at him. “How far is it to your settlement?”
“Two miles, if you’re goin’; three and a half, if you aint.”
“When are you coming in?”
“I’m in, now.”
“I can’t go with you to-day.”
“Well, how’ll to-morrow morning suit?”
“To-morrow morning will suit,” said Bartley.
“All right. If anybody comes to see the editor to-morrow morning, Marilla,” said Kinney to the girl, “you tell ’em he’s sick, and gone a-loggin’, and won’t be back till Saturday. Say,” he added, laying his hand on Bartley’s shoulder, “you aint foolin’?”
“If I am,” replied Bartley, “just mention it.”
“Good!” said Kinney. “To-morrow it is, then.”
Bartley finished addressing the newspapers, and then he put them up in wrappers and packages for the mail. “You can go, now, Marilla,” he said to the girl. “I’ll leave some copy for you and Kitty; you’ll find it on my table in the morning.”
“All right,” answered the girl.
Bartley went to his supper, which he ate with more relish than he had felt for his meals since his troubles began, and he took part in the supper-table talk with something of his old audacity. The change interested the lady boarders, and they agreed that he must have had a letter. He returned to his office, and worked till nine o’clock, writing and selecting matter out of his exchanges. He spent most of the time in preparing the funny column, which was a favorite feature in the Free Press. Then he put the copy where the girls would find it in the morning, and, leaving the door unlocked, took his way up the street toward Squire Gaylord’s.
He knew that he should find the lawyer in his office, and he opened the office door without knocking, and went in. He had not met Squire Gaylord since the morning of his dismissal, and the old man had left him for the past eight days without any sign as to what he expected of Bartley, or of what he intended to do in his affair.
They looked at each other, but exchanged no sort of greeting, as Bartley, unbidden, took a chair on the opposite side of the stove; the Squire did not put down the book he had been reading.
“I’ve come to see what you’re going to do about the Free Press,” said Bartley.
The old man rubbed his bristling jaw, that seemed even lanker than when Bartley saw it last. He waited almost a minute before he replied, “I don’t know as I’ve got any call to tell you.”
“Then I’ll tell you what I’m going to do about it,” retorted Bartley. “I’m going to leave it. I’ve done my last day’s work on that paper. Do you think,” he cried, angrily, “that I’m going to keep on in the dark, and let you consult your pleasure as to my future? No, sir! You don’t know your man quite, Mr. Gaylord!”
“You’ve got over your scare,” said the lawyer.
“I’ve got over my scare,” Bartley retorted.
“And you think, because you’re not afraid any longer, that you’re out of danger. I know my man as well as you do, I guess.”
“If you think I care for the danger, I don’t. You may do what you please. Whatever you do, I shall know it isn’t out of kindness for me. I didn’t believe from the first that the law could touch me, and I wasn’t uneasy on that account. But I didn’t want to involve myself in a public scandal, for Miss Gaylord’s sake. Miss Gaylord has released me from any obligations to her; and now you may go ahead and do what you like.” Each of the men knew how much truth there was in this; but for the moment in his anger, Bartley believed himself sincere, and there is no question but his defiance was so. Squire Gaylord made him no answer, and after a minute of expectation Bartley added, “At any rate, I’ve done with the Free Press. I advise you to stop the paper, and hand the office over to Henry Bird, when he gets about. I’m going out to Willett’s logging-camp tomorrow, and I’m coming back to Equity on Saturday. You’ll know where to find me till then, and after that you may look me up if you want me.”
He rose to go, but stopped with his hand on the door-knob, at a sound, preliminary to speaking, which the old man made in his throat. Bartley stopped, hoping for a further pretext of quarrel, but the lawyer merely asked, “Where’s the key?”
“It’s in the office door.”
The old man now looked at him as if he no longer saw him, and Bartley went out, balked of his purpose in part, and in that degree so much the more embittered.
Squire Gaylord remained an hour longer; then he blew out his lamp, and left the little office for the night. A light was burning in the kitchen, and he made his way round to the back door of the house, and let himself in. His wife was there, sitting before the stove, in those last delicious moments before going to bed, when all the house is mellowed to such a warmth that it seems hard to leave it to the cold and dark. In this poor lady, who had so long denied herself spiritual comfort, there was a certain obsc
ure luxury: she liked little dainties of the table; she liked soft warmth, an easy cushion. It was doubtless in the disintegration of the finer qualities of her nature, that, as they grew older together, she threw more and more the burden of acute feeling upon her husband, to whose doctrine of life she had submitted, but had never been reconciled. Marriage is, with all its disparities, a much more equal thing than appears, and the meek little wife, who has all the advantage of public sympathy, knows her power over her oppressor, and at some tender spot in his affections or his nerves can inflict an anguish that will avenge her for years of coarser aggression. Thrown in upon herself in so vital a matter as her religion, Mrs. Gaylord had involuntarily come to live largely for herself, though her talk was always of her husband. She gave up for him, as she believed, her soul’s salvation, but she held him to account for the uttermost farthing of the price. She padded herself round at every point where she could have suffered through her sensibilities, and lived soft and snug in the shelter of his iron will and indomitable courage. It was not apathy that she had felt when their children died one after another, but an obscure and formless exultation that Mr. Gaylord would suffer enough for both.
Marcia was the youngest, and her mother left her training almost wholly to her father; she sometimes said that she never supposed the child would live. She did not actually urge this in excuse, but she had the appearance of doing so; and she held aloof from them both in their mutual relations, with mildly critical reserves. They spoiled each other, as father and daughter are apt to do when left to themselves. What was good in the child certainly received no harm from his indulgence; and what was naughty was after all not so very naughty. She was passionate, but she was generous; and if she showed a jealous temperament that must hereafter make her unhappy, for the time being it charmed and flattered her father to have her so fond of him that she could not endure any rivalry in his affection.
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 149