All eyes turned upon Ruth, who sat listening to the terms of her inheritance. The Bishop beamed upon her and Mrs. Throop smiled with evident satisfaction and even Francis Xavier Steele felt mellow and nodded toward the girl. But Ruth was unsmiling and looked with a fixed expression at the towers of the cathedral which loomed over the square.
A few minutes later when the reading was completed the Bishop shook hands cordially with Sir Robert and remarked:
“In death as in life, Sir Robert (he pronounced it Robair), he was a worthy man, a very worthy man.”
XXI
A few days later, at dinner, Ruth startled her mother and the Major by abruptly declaring that she would have nothing to do with her uncle’s money.
“But, darling,” Mrs. Throop said when she had recovered from the shock, “you can’t do a thing like that.”
“Why not?”
“Well—er—you simply can’t, that’s all. The money is there waiting and you’ve got to accept it.”
“I won’t, mother, I just can’t.”
The Major looked at his stepdaughter as though she had suddenly taken leave of her senses, but Mrs. Throop understood. She understood and she dreaded her daughter’s decision becoming public knowledge. For two days she argued and pleaded, but Ruth was adamant.
“It isn’t that I don’t want to go about all my life remembering that—that afternoon. It isn’t that. But I don’t want his money. It seems as though he wanted to buy something that”—Ruth groped for words—“something that isn’t for sale.”
In desperation, Mrs. Throop called upon Sir Robert. She told the story of her brother and Ruth with as much delicacy and tact as she could muster.
“She was a young and sensitive convent girl at the time, highly imaginative, and in all probability misconstrued a perfectly harmless gesture. I’m sure you understand, Sir Robert.”
During his lifetime Steele had been frank with his lawyer, between the two men there had been a complete understanding. There had been several conferences at which persons left Sir Robert’s office after having received a check and duly signed a waiver of all claims. Sir Robert understood perfectly and said so with an utterly grave face.
It was decided that he would talk to Ruth, he would explain her status under the law and he would do his best to convince her to accept the money and keep the matter out of the Court of Probate.
The following day Ruth called upon Sir Robert and they motored to the Place Viger Hotel in the French quarter.
“The Ritz is all right for swank,” Sir Robert said, “but when it’s a matter of food give me the Place Viger. Fortunately it’s far from the stations and few Americans ever discover it.”
During the meal the greater part of the conversation was taken up with small talk and a long discussion by the baronet on the merits of tangerine juice as a basting for wild duck. It was his boast that he could cook a more perfect dinner than any chef in Canada. From the hors d’oeuvres to the dessert he traveled, gastronomically, from Northern Quebec (eggs served in warm maple syrup in the log cabin of a habitant—“a vile dish, my dear”) to Tahiti (sea trout on live embers in a wrapping of plantain leaves—“the meat is so tender it flakes in one’s fingers”) and on to a Maori pah in the North Island of New Zealand (mutton-bird caked with clay and baked in the mud of a hot spring).
When coffee was served Sir Robert suddenly launched into the business in hand.
“What’s this I hear about your not wanting to accept your uncle’s bequest?”
Ruth was unprepared for his sudden question and before she could frame a reply her host continued:
“Of course, you may turn it over to me as a gift. I shan’t mind, you know.”
“It’s hard for me to explain,” Ruth began.
“Your mother did all that yesterday,” the lawyer said. “She told me your unpleasant experience with your uncle. I understand how you feel about such a painful matter. But I think you should know that he was most anxious to see that you were made independent for life. I drew his will for him and he kept insisting that there was to be no hitch in the legalities.”
“But don’t you realize, Sir Robert, that I can’t take—I don’t want his money?”
“Why?”
“It’s a bribe. During his life he never came to me to ask my pardon. He came to the house very seldom after that afternoon. When he wrote the will he thought that he could buy my—my forgiveness with money. I don’t want to have anything to do with his money.”
“My dear girl,” Sir Robert said, “you must be more worldly and try and understand what was in your uncle’s mind when he left you this money which you so disdainfully toss away. You see, your uncle was an exceedingly practical man. He knew that money buys everything and in a measure he was right. Certainly money bought him happiness—the sort of happiness he wanted. And when he died he made his servants and relatives happy, everyone but you. No doubt he even thought that he was purchasing a seat at the foot of the throne of God with his money.”
The lawyer smiled and added: “The poor apostles.”
But Ruth, ignoring his arguments, repeated: “I’m sorry, Sir Robert, I don’t want his money.”
As though he had not heard, Sir Robert continued: “Don’t you see that your uncle has bought forgiveness? He has bought and paid for it—and there’s no way of returning his money. He has paid you and now he is beyond your reproaches and rejections. He bought forgiveness and righteousness just as he bought timberlands and real estate. Cash down and no nonsense.”
As she listened Ruth began to realize the truth of Sir Robert’s remarks. She sat and toyed with her serviette as the lawyer went on:
“Mind you, I understand your feelings—fully. But, you see, your attitude is a moral one, an ethical one, and there is nothing very moral or ethical about money. Money, my dear, as you will doubtless discover if you live long enough, has a logic all its own. Some people fail to understand this. They bring to the pursuit of money the logic of finer things and they invariably end in defeat and failure.”
“Then you are advising me,” Ruth said, “to employ Uncle Francis’ logic.”
“Precisely,” Sir Robert said. “Now one of the laws which govern money ordains that it multiply itself. I shan’t go into the details of that. And this multiplication will go on whether you accept the money or not. The law says that this money is yours whether you want it or not. And in all my years of legal practice I have not discovered a method of returning a bequest to a deceased testator.”
Sir Robert smiled as he concluded his remarks and for some time Ruth sat in silence, thinking.
When he thought she had come to realize the truth of what he had said, he asked:
“Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Ruth said, “I understand.”
On the first day of the following month she received the first of the interest checks.
XXII
Mrs. Throop was exceedingly fond of Edgar Kennedy and by means of shrewd diplomacy less eligible young men were discouraged in calling upon the Throops.
After the March thaw there were walks through the foot-paths of the mountain, afternoons in the drawing room at the piano and as Easter approached Ruth found herself in love. Her heart spilled over under the stimulus of this new and sudden emotion. One day as they cantered up the mountain roadway and he broke into a canter she sensed something heroic in the manner in which his knees gripped the horse’s sides, the grace with which he held his reins, the ease with which he rose and fell in the saddle. There were days and hushed, keenly painful evenings. And Mrs. Throop was contented, extraordinarily contented.
There had been times in the past when Ruth was a source of worry to her mother. As the girl passed her twentieth birthday and brooded by herself, going to early mass every day, playing at the piano all through the day, Mrs. Throop had felt that the girl was a cross especially placed on her shoulders by an angry Provi
dence. To Mrs. Richard Steele, a little frightened woman ever ready to agree with anyone more positive than herself, she said:
“My dear, at last I’m happy, truly happy. Of course, you know about Ruth and Edgar. A splendid young man. Following directly in his father’s footsteps and to think that Ruth—you know, I was beginning to think that the girl would never realize—I mean to say, what with her music and moods. I was through with that sort of thing when I was seventeen but for a girl of twenty to be mooning about playing the piano all through the day, not answering when she was spoken to, day-dreaming—she’ll make him a good wife. The day-dreamers always do. Emotional and that sort of thing.” Mrs. Throop smiled with understanding at her sister-in-law.“Not that that sort of thing is absolutely essential to a happy marriage but—”
“Yes, I know, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Steele broke in, “but men do care for that sort of thing these days. It’s this modern dancing, the theater. You know, I think that actresses have made love entirely different than it was when we were younger. And the moving pictures. Heavens!”
“Her music worried me especially. Goodness knows that I am a lover of music. The first time I heard Tosti’s Good-bye I broke down and wept. You know the story, of course. His wife was being carried off to the lunatic asylum and he was so overcome by grief that he dashed off to his studio and as her shrieks resounded through the house he wrote the song. Well, it’s different with foreign gentlemen; our men are colder, it seems.”
“For which, thank God,” Mrs. Steele said fervently.
“They went riding yesterday and she’s quite taken up with him. She’s really a child in spite of her deep feelings. You’ll never guess what she asked me this morning at breakfast.”
Mrs. Throop whispered to her sister-in-law. Mrs. Steele giggled and spluttered as she said:
“At her age! My, my! How splendid for Edgar. Even I, who was a silly little filly, knew that when I was sixteen, no, seventeen. Did you tell her everything, Elizabeth?”
“Everything,” said Mrs. Throop with evident pleasure.
XXIII
In practical matters Bishop Villeneuve of Montreal was, as Christ counseled, as cunning as a serpent, but in the realm of art and ritual (in the mind of the Bishop these were one) he was as gentle as a dove, as emotional as a young and innocent girl. This servant of God who had once walked calmly to the gallows supporting a condemned murderer, had an overwhelming love of music. A Bach partita exalted him to religious ecstasy and the Leipzig cantor’s Komm, Gott, Schöpfer, Heilige Geist moved him to tears.
It was a few days before Good Friday and the Bishop had been giving instructions to the cathedral organist. The little thin musician waited for His Grace to dismiss him, but the prelate closed his eyes in meditation for a moment. When he opened them he said:
“They are giving the Passion According to St. Matthew at His Majesty’s Theater on the afternoon of Good Friday.”
“Yes, Your Grace, so I have heard.”
“I will not be here for the afternoon services because Steiner, the tenor, is singing the Passion. I must hear him—a splendid voice—a splendid voice.”
The organist agreed quickly, smiling eagerly. “A very capable artist, Your Grace.”
“Yes, a splendid tenor,” said the Bishop. “What a pity that he is a Protestant.”
XXIV
Easter morning and the bells of Montreal’s many churches call the faithful to mass. In the North End, in Maisonneuve, St. Henry, from the hovels in the side streets running off malodorous Craig Street, from stiff and starched Westmount come thousands upon thousands to witness the resurrection of their Lord. French-Canadian merchants from Papineau Avenue and St. Denis Street, in black broadcloth suits, prostitutes without rouge from Cadieux Street (for He who is risen once saved one of these from the bloody hands of the righteous), mechanics, canadiens, with scrubbed faces and mirrorlike celluloid collars and brilliant red ties, little dark-faced, French girls in white, boys in stiff new suits; on foot in Maisonneuve, in shiny buggies in St. Henry and Lachine, in smart limousines from Westmount and Outremount—all are on the way to church this bright Spring morning. The bells toll, greetings are called across the narrow streets, stalks of fleur-de-lys are set in lapels and in corsage bouquets at the waists of the young ladies. Among those going to church are Ruth and Edgar; he in morning coat, gray striped trousers and wing collar, she in a suit of silver-gray trimmed with fur and a cocky toque from under which there is the ever-present wisp of recalcitrant auburn hair. The car drops them on the St. James Street side of the Place d’Armes and they walk jauntily across to the cathedral. The carillon tolls a hymn, the doors of the church are flung wide and the faithful enter.
≠
The Tuesday after Easter Sunday Mrs. Throop wrote to the society editors of the Star, the Witness, and the Herald announcing the betrothal of her daughter to Edgar Kennedy. She deliberately ignored La Presse, which, while being a good Catholic paper, was French-Canadian. A similarity of religious belief, she felt, did not imply social equality.
XXV
It was June and the lilacs spread their delicate fragrance over sunny roads and lanes, splashing the countryside with minute dominions of faint purple. Four years had passed since that day on the summit of the mountain. The memory of it was all but wiped out, nearly but not quite forgotten. And now Ruth was to be married.
Mountains of flowers were banked high in the spacious Notre Dame Cathedral; near the altar stood the Bishop, imposing in his vestments; groups of friends and relatives were seated waiting for the ceremony to begin. Outside, a group of curious onlookers stood about watching the carriages and automobiles arriving. Ruth was dressed in white (as Mrs. Throop watched she thought of the day twelve years ago when her daughter came up these same steps and knelt before the same altar on her communion day) and the groom twitched nervously as the Bishop uttered the blessing in Latin. The organ thundered. Mrs. Throop wept and the Major fidgeted with his mustache, wondering if the detachment of officers were properly rehearsed. Outside, newspaper photographers were awaiting the appearance of the couple. There was a faint cheer as Ruth and her husband appeared on the carpeted steps of the cathedral. Two rows of officers of the groom’s militia regiment drew their swords and formed a flashing arch under which the bridal pair walked to the limousine.
That night, after an exciting dinner, Ruth and Edgar took the express for Halifax from which they would go to Uncle Francis’ summer place at Gaspé overlooking the Gulf of St. Lawrence.
XXVI
Ruth experienced new, profound emotions during this first month of her marriage. There were peaceful days spent lazying on the beach in costumes which shocked the simple Gaspé natives. The sea drew her to itself, its mystic power was as strongly attractive to her as the spiritual power of the Church. There were also nights. Deep rich plush-black nights when nothing could be seen from the house save an occasional white-crested wave riding perilously towards the shore. At such times the foreboding and fears which usually come with marriage seemed most threatening. When the sun shone in the daytime, sparkling on the blue waters of the gulf, all misgivings were dispelled.
One night, as the month was drawing to its close, she came and joined Edgar who sat on the verandah overlooking the water. They said nothing for a while. Overhead the stars marched silently in their predestined tracks, blanked out from time to time by ragged, harassed clouds which sped homeless across the skies. After a long intimate silence, Ruth said:
“Edgar, dear, I should like to live here forever.”
The gurgling of his pipe ceased as he removed it from his mouth to reply. “So would I.” Then after a silence: “But it simply can’t be done—I mean to say, there is business and things like that.”
“Yes, darling, I know—but for tonight let’s pretend that we’ll live here forever. Just for tonight say that you will.”
“Very well, dear—we will.”
For a time she sat looking out
to sea, not speaking, then: “I have such a feeling of disaster about the city, about everything. It seems to me sometimes that all these things which we hold most precious will be taken away from us and destroyed. I feel that something—something dreadful is going to happen and I want to be happy forever, as we are now.” She put her hand in his and pressed it tightly.
Edgar laughed a sharp, reassuring masculine laugh. “Nonsense, my dear, you’re a little nervous tonight. The dark night, perhaps. Shall I ask Marie to serve you some tea?” He rose and went inside.
As Ruth sat waiting she looked out toward the surging gulf now being whipped into a senseless fury. Somewhere beyond the curtain of blackness lay Newfoundland, grim, bleak, inhabited by silent fishermen who lived perpetually on the brink of disaster; who unadventurously rode the storm that hungry mouths might be fed. She recalled a summer’s vacation on the island and remembered the gray poverty of the fishing villages, the strangely silent men, the disaster-haunted gaunt women. These were the waters through which Cabot sailed in the “Mathew,” a cockleshell ship manned by eighteen outcasts, cutthroats, and dreamers who sought the fantastic riches of India. They had sailed through the rock-infested straits searching for the cities of the Orient and had found instead the gray, bare rocks of the Gulf islands. Cabot, “who found the new isle” for which the king rewarded him with ten pounds. But now there were no adventurers, and cutthroats perished miserably in sanitary whitewashed chambers or pleaded for clemency without grace or courage. There were no kings who sent mad Italian voyagers forth to seek new lands; there were no new lands to seek.
She shook this mood off with an effort; with an effort she came home to earth. Perhaps, she thought, the great adventures were those that lay closer to the hearth: one’s everyday duties, love, the tremendous intensity of human relationships or the majestic throbbing of a choral prelude.
There Are Victories Page 7