Glasgow Ellen Anderson Gholson
The Builders
He met her squarely. "Alan's infatuation – for he is infatuated, isn't he?"
"Do you mean with me?" Her indignant surprise almost convinced him of her ignorance. "Who has told you that?"
She was holding a muff of silver fox, and she gazed down at it, stroking the fur gently, while she waited for him to answer. He noticed that her long slender fingers – she had the hand as well as the figure of one of Botticelli's Graces – were perfectly steady.
"That was the reason that Mary broke her engagement," he responded.
"Did she tell you that?"
"Yes, she told me. She said she knew that you had not meant it – that Alan had lost his head – "
Her voice broke in suddenly with a gasp of outraged amazement. "And you ask me to send Alan away because you are jealous? You ask me this – after – after – " Her attitude of indignant virtue was so impressive that, for a moment, he found himself wondering if he had wronged her – if he had actually misunderstood and neglected her?
"You must see for yourself, Angelica, that this cannot go on."
"You dare to turn on me like this!" She cried out so clearly that he started and looked at the door in apprehension. "You dare to accuse me of ruining Mary's happiness – after all I have suffered – after all I have stood from you – "
As her voice rose in its piercing sweetness, it occurred to him for the first time that she might wish to be overheard, that she might be making this scene less for his personal benefit than for its effect upon an invisible audience. It was the only time he had ever known her to sacrifice her inherent fastidiousness, and descend to vulgar methods of warfare, and he was keen enough to infer that the prize must be tremendous to compensate for so evident a humiliation.
"I accuse you of nothing," he said, lowering his tone in the effort to reduce hers to a conversational level. "For your own sake, I ask you to be careful."
But he had unchained the lightning, and it flashed out to destroy him. "You dare to say this to me – you who refused to send Miss Meade away though I begged you to – "
"To send Miss Meade away?" The attack was so unexpected that he wavered before it. "What has Miss Meade to do with it?"
"You refused to send her away. You positively refused when I asked you."
"Yes, I refused. But Miss Meade is Letty's nurse. What has she to do with Mary and Alan?"
"Oh, are you still trying to deceive me?" For an instant he thought she was going to burst into tears. "You knew you were spending too much time in the nursery – that you went when Cousin Matty was not there – Alan heard you admit it – you knew that I wanted to stop it, and you refused – you insisted – "
But his anger had overpowered him now, and he caught her arm roughly in a passionate desire to silence the hideous sound of her words, to thrust back the horror that she was spreading on the air – out into the world and the daylight.
"Stop, Angelica, or – "
Suddenly, without warning, she shrieked aloud, a shriek that seemed to his ears to pierce, not only the ceiling, but the very roof of the house. As he stood there, still helplessly holding her arm, which had grown limp in his grasp, he became aware that the door opened quickly and Alan came into the room.
"I heard a cry – I thought – "
Angelica's eyes were closed, but at the sound of Alan's voice, she raised her lids and looked at him with a frightened and pleading gaze.
"I cried out. I am sorry," she said meekly. Without glancing at Blackburn, she straightened herself, and walked, with short, wavering steps, out of the room.
For a minute the two men faced each other in silence; then Alan made an impetuous gesture of indignation and followed Angelica.
CHAPTER V
The Choice
"Looks as if we were going to war, Blackburn." It was the beginning of April, and Robert Colfax had stopped on the steps of his club.
"It has looked that way for the last thirty-two months."
"Well, beware the anger – or isn't it the fury? – of the patient man. It has to come at last. We've been growling too long not to spring – and my only regret is that, as long as we're going to war, we didn't go soon enough to get into the fight. I'd like to have had a chance at potting a German. Every man in town is feeling like that to-day."
"You think it will be over before we get an army to France?"
"I haven't a doubt of it. It will be nothing more than a paper war to a finish."
A good many Virginians were thinking that way. Blackburn was not sure that he hadn't thought that way himself for the last two or three months. Everywhere he heard regrets that it was too late to have a share in the actual whipping of Germany – that we were only going to fight a decorous and inglorious war on paper. Suddenly, in a night, as it were, the war spirit in Virginia had flared out. There was not the emotional blaze – the flaming heat – older men said – of the Confederacy; but there was an ever-burning, insistent determination to destroy the roots of this evil black flower of Prussian autocracy. There was no hatred of Austria – little even of Turkey. The Prussian spirit was the foe of America and of the world; and it was against the Prussian spirit that the militant soul of Virginia was springing to arms. Men who had talked peace a few months before – who had commended the nation that was "too proud to fight," who had voted for the President because of the slogan "he kept us out of war" – had now swung round dramatically with the volte-face of the Government. The President had at last committed himself to a war policy, and all over the world Americans were awaiting the great word from Congress. In an hour personal interests had dissolved into an impersonal passion of service. In an hour opposing currents of thought had flowed into a single dominant purpose, and the President, who had once stood for a party, stood now for America.
For, in a broader vision, the spirit of Virginia was the spirit of all America. There were many, it is true, who had not, in the current phrase, begun to realize what war would mean to them; there were many who still doubted, or were indifferent, because the battle had not been fought at their doorstep; but as a whole the country stood determined, quiet, armed in righteousness, and waited for the great word from Congress.
And over the whole country, from North to South, from East to West, the one question never asked was, "What will America get out of it when it is over?"
"By Jove, if we do get into any actual fighting, I mean to go," said Robert, "I am not yet thirty."
Blackburn looked at him enviously. "It's rotten on us middle-aged fellows. Isn't there a hole of some sort a man of forty-three can stop up?"
"Of course they've come to more than that in England."
"We may come to it here if the war keeps up – but that isn't likely."
"No, that isn't likely unless Congress dies talking. Why, for God's sake, can't we strangle the pacifists for once? Nobody would grieve for them."
"Oh, if liberty isn't for fools, it isn't liberty. I suppose the supreme test of our civilization, is that we let people go on talking when we don't agree with them."
It was, in reality, only a few days that Congress was taking to define and emphasize the President's policy, but these days were interminable to a nation that waited. Talk was ruining the country, people said. Thirty-two months of talking were enough even for an American Congress. It was as much as a man's reputation was worth to vote against the war; it was more than it was worth to give his reasons for so voting. There was tension everywhere, yet there was a strange muffled quiet – the quiet before the storm.
"We are too late for the fun," said Robert. "Germany will back down as soon as she sees we are in earnest." This was what every one was saying, and Blackburn heard it again when he left Colfax and went into the club.
"The pity is we shan't have time to get a man over to France. It's all up to the navy."
"The British navy, you mean? Where'd we be now but for the British navy?"
"Well, thank God, the note writing is over!"
There was determination enough; but the older men were right – there was none of the flame and ardour of secession days. The war was realized vaguely as a principle rather than as a fact. It was the difference between fighting for abstract justice and knocking down a man in hot blood because he has affronted one's wife. The will to strike was all there, only one did not see red when one delivered the blow. Righteous indignation, not personal rage, was in the mind of America.
"We aren't mad yet," remarked an old Confederate soldier to Blackburn. "Just wait till they get us as mad as we were at Manassas, and we'll show the Germans!"
"You mean wait until they drop bombs on New York instead of London?"
"Good Lord, no. Just wait until our boys have seen, not read, about the things they are doing."
So there were a few who expected an American army to reach France before the end of the war.
"Never mind about taxes. We must whip the Huns, and we can afford to pay the bills!"
For here as elsewhere the one question never asked was, "What are we going to get out of it?"
Prosperity was after all a secondary interest. Underneath was the permanent idealism of the American mind.
When Blackburn reached Briarlay, he found Letty and Caroline walking under the budding trees in the lane, and stopping his car, he got out and strolled slowly back with them to the house. The shimmer and fragrance of spring was in the air, and on the ground crowds of golden crocuses were unfolding.
"Father, will you go to war if Uncle Roane does?" asked Letty, as she slipped her hand into Blackburn's and looked up, with her thoughtful child's eyes, into his face. "Uncle Roane says he is going to whip the Germans for me."
"I'll go, if they'll take me, Letty. Your Uncle Roane is ten years younger than I am." At the moment the war appeared to him, as it had appeared to Mary, as the open door – the way of escape from an intolerable situation; but he put this idea resolutely out of his mind. There was a moral cowardice in using impersonal issues as an excuse for the evasion of personal responsibility.
"But you could fight better than he could, father."
"I am inclined to agree with you. Perhaps the Government will think that way soon."
"Alan is going, too. Mother begged him not to, but he said he just had to go. Mammy Riah says the feeling is in his bones, and he can't help it. When a feeling gets into your bones you have to do what it tells you."
"It looks as if Mammy Riah knew something about it."
"But if you go and Alan goes and Uncle Roane goes, what will become of mother?"
"You will have to take care of her, Letty, you and Miss Meade."
Caroline, who had been walking in silence on the other side of the road, turned her head at the words. She was wearing a blue serge suit and a close-fitting hat of blue straw, and her eyes were as fresh and spring-like as the April sky.
"There is no doubt about war, is there?" she asked.
"It may come at any hour. Whether it will mean an American army in France or not, no one can say; but we shall have to furnish munitions, if not men, as fast as we can turn them out."
"Mr. Peyton said this morning it would be impossible to send men because we hadn't the ships."
Blackburn laughed. "Then, if necessary, we will do the impossible." It was the voice of America. Everywhere at that hour men were saying, "We will do the impossible."
"I should like to go," said Caroline. "I should like above all things to go."
They had stopped in the road, and still holding Letty's hand, he looked over her head at Caroline's face. "Miss Meade, will you make me a promise?"
Clear and radiant and earnest, her eyes held his gaze. "Unconditionally?"
"No, the conditions I leave to you. Will you promise?"
"I will promise." She had not lowered her eyes, and he had not looked away from her. Her face was pale, and in the fading sunlight he could see the little blue veins on her temples and the look of stern sweetness that sorrow had chiselled about her mouth. More than ever it seemed to him the face of a strong and fervent spirit rather than the face of a woman. So elusive was her beauty that he could say of no single feature, except her eyes, "Her charm lies here – or here – " yet the impression she gave him was one of magical loveliness. There was, he thought, a touch of the divine in her smile, as if her look drew its radiance from an inexhaustible source.
"Will you promise me," he said, "that whatever happens, as long as it is possible, you will stay with Letty?"
She waited a moment before she answered him, and he knew from her face that his words had touched the depths of her heart. "I promise you that for Letty's sake I will do the impossible," she answered.
She gave him her hand, and he clasped it over the head of the child. It was one of those rare moments of perfect understanding and sympathy – of a mental harmony beside which all emotional rapture appears trivial and commonplace. He was aware of no appeal to his senses – life had taught him the futility of all purely physical charm – and the hand that touched Caroline's was as gentle and as firm as it had been when it rested on Letty's head. Here was a woman who had met life and conquered it, who could be trusted, he felt, to fight to the death to keep her spirit inviolate.
"Only one thing will take me away from Letty," she said. "If we send an army and the country calls me."
"That one thing is the only thing?"
"The only thing unless," she laughed as if she were suggesting an incredible event, "unless you or Mrs. Blackburn should send me away!"
To her surprise the ridiculous jest confused him. "Take care of Letty," he responded quickly; and then, as they reached the porch, he dropped the child's hand, and went up the steps and into the house.
In the library, by one of the windows which looked out on the terrace and the sunset, Colonel Ashburton was reading the afternoon paper, and as Blackburn entered, he rose and came over to the fireplace.
"I was a little ahead of you, so I made myself at home, as you see," he observed, with his manner of antiquated formality. In the dim light his hair made a silvery halo above his blanched features, and it occurred to Blackburn that he had never seen him look quite so distinguished and detached from his age.
"If I'd known you were coming, I should have arranged to get here earlier."
"I didn't know it myself until it was too late to telephone you at the works." There was an unnatural constraint in his voice, and from the moment of his entrance, Blackburn had surmised that the Colonel's visit was not a casual one. The war news might have brought him; but it was not likely that he would have found the war news either disconcerting or embarrassing.
"The news is good, isn't it?" inquired Blackburn, a little stiffly, because he could think of nothing else to say.
"First rate. There isn't a doubt but we'll whip the Germans before autumn. It wasn't about the war, however, that I came."
"There is something else then?"
Before he replied Colonel Ashburton looked up gravely at the portrait of Blackburn's mother which hung over the mantelpiece. "Very like her, very like her," he remarked. "She was a few years older than I – but I'm getting on now – I'm getting on. That's the worst of being born between great issues. I was too young for the last war – just managed to be in one big battle before Lee surrendered – and I'm too old for this one. A peace Colonel doesn't amount to much, does he?" Then he looked sharply at Blackburn. "David," he asked in a curiously inanimate voice, "have you heard the things people are saying about you?"
"I have heard nothing except what has been said to my face."
"Then I may assume that the worst is still to be told you?"
"You may safely assume that, I think."
Again the Colonel's eyes were lifted to the portrait of Blackburn's mother. "There must be an answer to a thing like this, David," he said slowly. "There must be something that you can say."
"Tell me what is said."
Shaking the silvery hair from his forehead, the older man still gazed upward, as if he were interrogating the portrait – as if he were seeking guidance from the imperishable youth of the painted figure. Serene and soft as black pansies, the eyes of the picture looked down on him from a face that reminded him of a white roseleaf.
"It is said" – he hesitated as if the words hurt him – "that your wife accuses you of cruelty. I don't know how the stories started, but I have waited until they reached a point where I felt that they must be stopped – or answered. For the sake of your future – of your work – you must say something, David."
While he listened Blackburn had walked slowly to the window, gazing out on the afterglow, where some soft clouds, like clusters of lilacs, hung low above the dark brown edge of the horizon. For a moment, after the voice ceased, he still stood there in silence. Then wheeling abruptly, he came back to the hearth where the Colonel was waiting.
"Is that all?" he asked.
The Colonel made a gesture of despair. "It is rumoured that your wife is about to leave you."
Blackburn looked at him intently. "If it is only a rumour – "
"But a man's reputation may be destroyed by a rumour."
"Is there anything else?"
As he spoke it was evident to the other that his thoughts were not on his words.
"I am your oldest friend. I was the friend of your mother – I believe in your vision – in your power of leadership. For the sake of the ideas we both try to serve, I have come to you – hating – dreading my task – "
He stopped, his voice quivering as if from an emotion that defied his control, and in the silence that followed, Blackburn said quietly, "I thank you."
"It is said – how this started no one knows, and I suppose it does not matter – that your wife called in the doctor to treat a bruise on her arm, and that she admitted to him that it came from a blow. Daisy Colfax was present, and it appears that she told the story, without malice, but indiscreetly, I gathered – "
As he paused there were beads of perspiration on his forehead, and his lip trembled slightly. It had been a difficult task, but, thank God, he told himself, he had been able to see it through. To his surprise, Blackburn's face had not changed. It still wore the look of immobility which seemed to the other to express nothing – and everything.
"You must let me make some answer to these charges, David. The time has come when you must speak."
For a moment longer Blackburn was silent. Then he said slowly, "What good will it do?"
"But the lie, unless it is given back, will destroy not only you, but your cause. It will be used by your enemies. It will injure irretrievably the work you are trying to do. In the end it will drive you out of public life in Virginia."
"If you only knew how differently I am coming to think of these things," said Blackburn presently, and he added after a pause, "If I cannot bear misunderstanding, how could I bear defeat? – for work like mine must lead to temporary defeat – "
"Not defeat like this – not defeat that leaves your name tarnished."
For the first time Blackburn's face showed emotion. "And you think that a public quarrel would clear it?" he asked bitterly.
"But surely, without that, there could be a denial – "
"There can be no other denial. There is but one way to meet a lie, and that way I cannot take."
"Then things must go on, as they are, to the – end?"
"I cannot stop them by talking. If it rests with me, they must go on."
"At the cost of your career? Of your power for usefulness? Of your obligations to your country?"
Turning his head, Blackburn looked away from him to the window, which had been left open. From the outside there floated suddenly the faint, provocative scent of spring – of nature which was renewing itself in the earth and the trees. "A career isn't as big a thing at forty-three as it is at twenty," he answered, with a touch of irony. "My power for usefulness must stand on its merits alone, and my chief obligation to my country, as I see it, is to preserve the integrity of my honour. We hear a great deal to-day about the personal not counting any longer; yet the fact remains that the one enduring corner-stone of the State is the personal rectitude of its citizens. You cannot build upon any other foundation, and build soundly. I may be wrong – I often am – but I must do what I believe to be right, let the consequences be what they will."
Now that he had left the emotional issue behind him, the immobility had passed from his manner, and his thoughts were beginning to come with the abundance and richness that the Colonel associated with his public speeches. Already he had put the question of his marriage aside, as a fact which had been accepted and dismissed from his mind.
"In these last few years – or months rather – I have begun to see things differently," he resumed, with an animation and intensity that contrasted strangely with his former constraint and dumbness. "I can't explain how it is, but this war has knocked a big hole in reality. We can look deeper into things than any generation before us, and the deeper we look, the more we become aware of the outer darkness in which we have been groping. I am groping now, I confess it, but I am groping for light."
"It will leave a changed world when it is over," assented the Colonel, and he spoke the platitude with an accent of relief, as if he had just turned away from a sight that distressed him. "More changed, I believe, for us older ones than for the young who have done the actual fighting. I should like to write a book about that – the effect of the war on the minds of the non-combatants. The fighters have been too busy to think, and it is thought, after all, not action, that leaves the more permanent record. Life will spring again over the battle-fields, but the ideas born of the war will control the future destinies of mankind."
"I am beginning to see," pursued Blackburn, as if he had not heard him, "that there is something far bigger than the beliefs we were working for. Because we had got beyond the sections to the country, you and I, we thought we were emancipated from the bondage of prejudice. The chief end of the citizen appeared to us to be the glory of the nation, but I see now – I am just beginning to see – that there is a greater spirit than the spirit of nationality. You can't live through a world war, even with an ocean between – and distance, by the way, may give us all the better perspective, and enable Americans to take a wider view than is possible to those who are directly in the path of the hurricane – you can't live through a world war, and continue to think in terms of geographical boundaries. To think about it at all, one must think in universal relations."
He hesitated an instant, and then went on more rapidly, "After all, we cannot beat Germany by armies alone, we must beat her by thought. For two generations she has thought wrong, and it is only by thinking right – by forcing her to think right – that we can conquer her. The victory belongs to the nation that engraves its ideas indelibly upon the civilization of the future."
Leaning back in the shadows, Colonel Ashburton gazed at him with a perplexed and questioning look. Was it possible that he had never understood him – that he did not understand him to-day? He had come to speak of an open scandal, of a name that might be irretrievably tarnished – and Blackburn had turned it aside by talking about universal relations!
