CHAPTER XIII
SUMMER
The dust lay thick in Ward Street, sifting its fine powder on the leaves of the cottonwoods that grew at the weedy gutter. The grass in the yard grew long, and the bushes languished in the heat. Judge Blair’s beans clambered up their poles and turned white; and Connie’s sweet peas grew lush and rank, running, as she complained, mostly to leaves. The house seemed to have withdrawn within itself; its green shutters were closed. In the evening dim figures could be seen on the veranda, and the drone of voices could be heard. At eleven o’clock, the deep siren of the Limited could be heard, as it rounded the curve a mile out of town. After that it was still, and night lay on Macochee, soft, vast, immeasurable. The clock in the Court House tower boomed out the heavy hours. Sometimes the harmonies of the singing negroes were borne over the town.
And to Marley and Lavinia those days, and those evenings of purple shadows and soft brilliant stars, were but the setting of a dream that unfolded new wonders constantly. They were but a part of all life, a part of the glowing summer itself, innocent of the thousand artificial demands man has made on himself. Lavinia went about with a new expression, exalted, expectant; a new dignity had come to her and a new beauty; all at once, suddenly, as it were, character had set its noble mark upon her, and about her slender figure there was the aureola of romance.
“Have you noticed Lavinia?” Mrs. Blair asked her husband.
“No, why?” he said, in the alarm that was ever ready to spring within him.
“She has changed so; she has grown so beautiful!”
One morning the judge saw a spar of light flash from her finger, and he peered anxiously over his glasses.
“What’s that, Lavinia?” he asked, and when she stood at his knee, almost like a little girl again in all but spirit, he took her finger.
“A ring,” she said simply.
“What does it mean?”
“Glenn gave it to me.”
“Glenn?”
“Yes.”
“But I thought there was to be no engagement?” The judge looked up, as if there had been betrayal. But Lavinia only smiled. The judge looked at her a moment, then released her hand.
“I wouldn’t wear it where any one could see it,” he said.
The summer stretched itself long into September; and then came the still days of fall, moving slowly by in majestic procession. With the first cool air, a new restless energy awoke in Marley. All the summer he had neglected his studies; but now a change was working in him as wonderful as that which autumn was working in the world. He looked back at that happy, self-sufficient summer, and, for an instant, he had a wild, impotent desire to detain it, to hold it, to keep things just as they were; but the summer was gone, the winter at hand, and he felt all at once the impact of practical life. He faced the future, and for an instant he recoiled.
Lavinia was standing looking up at him. She laid her hand on his shoulder.
“What is it, Glenn?”
“I was just thinking,” he said, “that I have a great assurance in asking you to marry me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, dear, just this: I can’t get a practice in Macochee; I might as well look it in the face now as any time. I have known it all along, but I’ve kept it from you, and I’ve tried to keep it from myself. There’s no place here for me; everybody says so, your father, Wade Powell, everybody. There’s no chance for a young man in the law in these small towns. I’ve tried to make myself think otherwise. I’ve tried to make myself believe that after I’d been admitted I could settle down here and get a practice and we could have a little home of our own—but—”
“Can’t we?” Lavinia whispered the words, as if she were afraid utterance would confirm the fear they imported.
“Well—that’s what they all say,” Marley insisted.
“But papa’s always talking that way,” Lavinia protested. “I suppose all old men do. They forget that they were ever young, and I don’t see what right they have to destroy your faith, your confidence, or the confidence of any young man!” Lavinia blazed out these words indignantly. It was consoling to Marley to hear them, he liked her passionate partizanship in his cause. He longed for her to go on, and he waited, anxious to be reassured in spite of himself. He could see her face dimly in the starlight, and feel her figure rigid with protest beside him.
“It’s simply wicked in them,” she said presently. “I don’t care what they say. We can and we will!”
“I like to have you put it that way, dear,” said Marley. “I like to have you say ‘we’!”
She drew more closely to him.
“And you think we can?” he said presently.
“I know it.”
“And have a little home, here, in one of these quiet streets, with the shade, and the happiness—”
“Yes!”
“And it wouldn’t matter much if we were poor?”
“No!”
“Just at first, you know. I’d work hard, and we could be so happy, so happy, just we two, together!”
“Yes, yes,” she whispered.
“I love Macochee so,” Marley said presently. “I just couldn’t leave it!”
“Don’t! Don’t!” she protested. “Don’t even speak of it!”
CHAPTER XIV
ONE SUNDAY MORNING
It was Sunday morning and Marley sat in church looking at a shaft of soft light that fell through one of the tall windows. From gazing at the shaft of light, he began to study the symbols in the different windows, the cross and crown, the lamb, the triangle that represented the Trinity, all the Roman symbols that Protestantism still retains in its decorations. Then he counted the pipes in the organ, back and forth, never certain that he had counted them correctly. All about him the people were going through the service, but it had lost all meaning for Marley, because he had been accustomed to it from childhood.
Having been reassured by Lavinia, he felt that he should be happy, yet a strong sense of dissatisfaction, of uncertainty, flowed persistently under all his thoughts, belying his heart’s assurance of its happiness. When Doctor Marley, advancing to the pulpit, buttoned his coat down before him, pushed aside the vase of flowers the ladies’ committee always put in his way, and stood with his strong, expressive hand laid on the open Bible, Marley’s thoughts fixed themselves for a moment in the pride and love he had always had for his father. There swept before him hundreds of scenes like this when his father had stood up to preach, and then suddenly he realized that his father had grown old: he was white-haired and in his rugged, smooth-shaven face deep lines were drawn—the lines of a beautiful character.
He remembered something his father had said to the effect that the pulpit was the only place in which inexperienced youth was desired, showing the insincerity of what people call their religion, and then he remembered the ambitions he had dimly felt in his father in his earlier days; it had been predicted that his father would be a bishop. But he was not a bishop, and now in all probability never would be one; he was not politician enough for that. And Marley wondered whether or not his father could be said to have been successful; he had come to know and to do high things, he had lived a life full of noble sacrifice and the finest faith in humanity and in God; but was this success? He heard his father’s voice:
“The text will be found in the third chapter of the Lamentations of Jeremiah.”
But Marley never listened to sermons; now and then he caught a phrase, or a period, especially when his father raised his voice, but his thoughts were elsewhere, anywhere—not on the sermon. The men and women sitting in front of him kept shifting constantly, and he grew tired of slipping this way and that and craning his neck in order to see his father. And then the constant fluttering of fans hurt his eyes, and they wandered here and there, each person they lighted on suggesting some new train of thought.
Presently they fell on a girl in a white dress, and in some way she suggested Lavinia. And instantly he felt that he should be perfectly happy when thinking of Lavinia, but, as suddenly, came that subconscious uncertainty, that deep-flowing discontent. He went over his last conversation with Lavinia, in which he had found such assurance, but now away from her he realized that he had lulled himself into a sense of security that was all false; and the conviction that Macochee had no place for him, at least as a lawyer, came back. He tried to put it away from him, and think of something else.
His eyes fell on old Selah Dudley, sitting like all pillars of the church, at the end of his pew. Dudley’s back was narrow, and rounded out between the shoulders so that Marley wondered how he could sit comfortably at all; his head was flat and sheer behind, and Marley could see with what care the old banker had plastered the scant hair across his bald poll—the only sign of vanity revealed in him, unless it were in the brown kid gloves he wore. Marley looked at Dudley with the feeling that he was looking at the most successful man in Macochee, and yet he had a troubled sense of the phariseeism that is the essential element of such success. He remembered what Wade Powell had said; immediately he saw Dudley in a new light; the old man sat stolid, patient and brutal, waiting for some heterodoxy, or something that could be construed as heterodoxy, theological or economic, like a savage with a spear waiting to pierce his prey, and glad when the moment came.
But Marley, seeing the young girl in the white dress, again thought of Lavinia, who would be sitting at that very moment with her father and mother and Connie and Chad over in the Presbyterian church. How long would it be before he could sit there beside her, as her husband? Then with a flash it came to him that they would, in all likelihood, be married in that very church. Instantly he saw the spectators gathered, he saw the pulpit and the chancel-rail hidden in flowers, he saw his father with his ritual in his hands, waiting; and then while the organ played the wedding march, Lavinia coming down the aisle, her eyes lowered under her veil. His heart beat faster, he felt a wave of emotion, joyous, exciting.
But there was much to do before that moment could come—the long days and nights of study; the examination looming like a mountain of difficulties, then months and years of waiting for a practice. He tried to imagine each detail of the coming of a practice, but he could not; he could not conceive how it was possible for a practice to come to any one, much less to him. There were many lawyers in Macochee now, and all of them were more or less idle. There was certainly no need of more. Judge Blair and Wade Powell and every one had told him that, and suddenly he felt an impatience with them all, as if they were responsible for the conditions they described; they all conspired against him, men and conditions, making up the elements of a harsh, intractable fate.
And Marley grew bitter against every one in Macochee; they all gossiped about him, they were all determined to drive him away; well, let them; he would go; but he would come back again some day as a great, successful lawyer, looking down on them and their little interests, and they would be filled with envy and respect. But what of Lavinia?
What right had he to ask her to marry him? What right had he to place her in the position he had? He realized it now, clearly, he told himself, for the first time. She had given up all for him. She would go out no more, she had foregone her parties, calls, picnics, dances, everything; in her devotion she had estranged her friends. He had given her parents concern, he had placed her in a false, impossible position. He must rescue her from it. But how? By breaking the engagement? He blushed for the thought. By going away quietly, silently, without a word? That would only increase the difficulty of her position. By keeping her waiting, year after year, until he could find a foothold in the world? Even that was unfair.
No, he could not give up Lavinia and he could not go away from Macochee, hence it followed that he must give up the law. He must get some work to do, and at once; something that would pay him enough to support a wife. He began to canvass the possibilities in Macochee. He thought of all the openings; surely there would be something; there were several thousand persons in Macochee, and they lived somehow. He did not wish to give up the law; not that he loved it so, but because he disliked to own himself beaten. But it was necessary; he could suffer this defeat; he could make this sacrifice. There was something almost noble in the attitude, and he derived a kind of morbid consolation from the thought.
His father was closing the Bible—sure sign that the sermon was about to end. There was another prayer, then a hymn, and while the congregation remained standing for the benediction, he heard his father’s voice:
“The peace of God which passeth all understanding—”
The words had always comforted him in the sorrows he was constantly imagining, but now they brought no peace.
In another moment the congregation was stirring joyously, in unconscious relief that the sitting was over. The hum of voices assumed a pleasant social air, as friend and acquaintance turned to greet one another. The people moved slowly down the aisle. He caught a glimpse of his father, smiling and happy—happy that his work was done—passing his handkerchief over his reddened brow and bending to take the hands of those who came to speak to him and to congratulate him. Just then Selah Dudley gave his father his hand; the sight pleased Marley; and suddenly an idea came to him.
CHAPTER XV
A SAINT’S ADVICE
On Monday morning Marley found Dudley at his post in the First National Bank. He halted at the little low gate in the rail that ran round Dudley’s desk until Dudley looked up and saw him, and then Marley smiled. Dudley, conceiving it to be the propitiatory smile of the intending borrower, narrowed his eyes as he regarded him.
“Well?” he said.
Marley went in and sat down on the edge of the hard chair that was placed near Dudley.
“I wish to have a little talk with you, Mr. Dudley,” he said. He waited then for Dudley to reply, thinking perhaps he would be interested in the son of his pastor. Dudley had turned his chair a little, and seemed to have sunk a little lower in its brown leather cushions, worn to a hard shine during the long years he had sat there. The lower part of him was round and full and heavy, while his shoulders were narrow and sloping, and his chest sunken, as if, from sitting there so many years, his vitals had settled, giving him the figure of a half emptied bag of grain. His legs were thin, and his trousers crept constantly up the legs of the boots he wore; the boots were blackened as far as the ankles, above the ankles they were wrinkled and scuffed to a dirty brown.
Marley noted these details hurriedly, for it was the face of the man that held him. A scant beard, made up of a few harsh, wiry hairs, partly covered the banker’s cheeks and chin; his upper lip was clean-shaven, and his hair, scant but still black, was combed forward at the temples, and carefully carried over from one side of his head to the other, ineffectually trying to hide the encroaching baldness. His nose was large; his eyes narrow under his almost barren brows and red at the edges of the lids that lacked lashes.
“What do you want?” said Dudley, never moving, as if to economize his energies, as he economized his words and every other thing of value in his narrow world.
Marley did not know just what reply to make: this was a critical moment to him, and he must make no mistake.
“I came,” he began, “to—to ask you for a little advice.”
Dudley, at this, settled a little more into his chair, possibly a little more comfortably; he seemed to relax somewhat, and his eyes were not quite so narrow as they had been. But he blinked a moment, and then cautiously asked:
“What about?”
“Well, it’s just this,” Marley began, smiling persistently; “you see I’ve begun the study of law; I had intended to be a lawyer.”
“We’ve got plenty o’ lawyers,” said Dudley.
“That’s just the conclusion I have come to, and I was thinking somewhat of making a change. And so I thought I’d come and ask you, that is, your advice.”
Dudley, still cautious, made no reply, and Marley almost despaired of getting on easy terms. He began to wish he had not come; he might have known this, he said to himself, and his smile and the confidence with which he had come began to leave him. But he must make another effort.
“You see, Mr. Dudley,” he said, “I thought, as things are nowadays, I would have to wait years before I could really do anything in the law, and as I have my own way to make in the world, I thought, you know, I might get into something else.”
“What, for instance?” asked Dudley.
“Well, I didn’t exactly know; I had hardly thought it out,—that’s why I came to you, knowing you to be a man of large affairs.”
Dudley had an instant’s vision of his bank, of his stocks, and of the many farms all over Gordon County on which he held mortgages, but he checked his impulse; these very possessions must be guarded; people envied him them, and while this envy in one way was among the sources of his few joys, it nevertheless gave rise to covetousness which was prohibited by the tenth commandment.
“So you want my advice, eh?” he asked, looking hard at Marley.
“Yes, sir.”
“And that’s all?” he asked suspiciously.
“Well—any suggestions,” Marley said.
Dudley still hesitated. He continued to study Marley out of his little eyes. Presently he inquired, as if by way of getting a basis to start on:
“You been to college, ain’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Marley answered promptly; “I graduated in June.”
“How long was you there?”
“Why,” Marley replied in some surprise, “the full four years.”
“Four years,” Dudley repeated. “How old?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Well, that’s that much time wasted. If a young man’s going to get along these times, and make anything of himself, he has to start early, learn business ways and habits. He’s got to begin at the bottom, and feel his way up.” The banker was speaking now with a reckless waste of words that was surprising. “The main thing at first is to work; it ain’t the money. Now, when I come to Macochee, forty-seven years ago, I hadn’t nothing. But I went to work, I was up early, and I went to bed early; I worked hard all day, I ’tended to business, and I saved my money. That’s it, young man, that’s the only way—up early, work hard, and save your money.” Dudley leaned back in his chair to let Marley contemplate him.
“But what did you work at? At first, I mean.”
“Why,” said Dudley, as if in surprise, “at anything I could get. I wan’t proud; I wan’t ’fraid o’ work.”
Marley leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and began twirling his hat in his hands. Then, thinking the attitude lacking in respect, he sat up again.
“Then, I was careful of my habits,” Dudley went on. “I never touched a bit o’ tobacco, nor tasted a drop o’ liquor in my life.”
He paused, and then:
“Do you use tobacco?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” Marley hesitated to confess.
“Cigarettes?”
“Now and then.”
“Humph! Learned that at college, I suppose.” Marley made no reply.
“Well, you’ve started wrong, young man. That wan’t the way I made myself. I never touched a drop of liquor nor tasted tobacco. I worked hard and God prospered me—yes, God prospered me.”
Dudley’s voice sank piously.
“Now, I’ll tell you.” He seemed to be about to impart the secret of it all. “When I was your age, I embraced religion, and I promised God that if he’d prosper me I’d give a tenth of all I made to the church; a tenth, yes, sir, a full tenth.” The banker paused again as if making a calculation, and a trouble gathered for an instant at his hairless brows, but, as if by an effort, he smoothed them so that they became meek and submissive. And then he went on, as if he had found a species of relief:
“But it was the best bargain I ever made. It paid; yes, it paid; I kep’ my word, and the Lord kep’ His; He prospered me.”
He had folded his hands, and sat blinking at Marley.
“So my advice to you, young man, is to give up tobacco and all your other bad habits, to be up early in the morning, to work hard, and remember God in all your ways, and He shall direct thy paths.”
Dudley stirred, and moved his swivel chair a little, as if it were time to resume work. But Marley sat there.
“That’s my advice to you, young man,” Dudley repeated, “and it won’t cost you a cent.” He said this generously, at the same time implying a hint of dismissal. Still Marley did not move, and Dudley eyed him in some concern. Marley saw the look and forced a smile.
“I thank you, Mr. Dudley,” he said, “for your advice. I am sure it is good. I was wondering, though,” he went on, with a reluctance that he knew impaired the effect of his words, “if you wouldn’t have something here in your bank for me—”
At this Dudley suddenly seemed to shrink in size. His eyes became small, mere inflamed slits beneath his hairless brows, and he said:
“I thought you said you wanted advice?”
“Well, I did,” Marley explained, “but I thought maybe—”
He did not finish the sentence. He rose and stood, still twirling his hat in his hand. “And you have nothing, you know of nothing?”
Dudley slowly shook his head from side to side, once or twice, having resumed his economical habits.
“Good morning,” Marley said, and left.
As he went out, the cashier and the assistant cashier looked at him through the green wire screen. Then they lifted their heads from their tasks cautiously and exchanged surreptitious glances.