9

Uncomfortable under the dancing eyes of Aaron, Joseph Baynes and Tom Orville seated themselves awkwardly, and glanced furtively at each other as if to say: Why does he have to be here? But Jim Purcell gave Aaron a long look and nodded slightly. His large and misshapen face resembled a mass of formless and colorless dough, all protuberances, swellings, and circular pits, in which his eyes were mere small lozenges of mud, so lightless were they, so without sparkle or expression. His lumpy nose was greasy, and seemed to have been stuck at a haphazard angle in the center of his face, and his mouth was a mere crease in the general doughiness. Above a very low forehead rose a thin but tough layer of coarse brown hair, which apparently was never combed or brushed, and his large ears flew out from the sides of his big head like crudely fashioned wax. He gave an unperturbed impression of absolute and deliberate coarseness, and his rumpled clothing, his badly tied black cravat, revealed his calm scorn for the niceties, as did his dark and enormous hands with their carelessly cleaned nails. His great boots were stained and coated with old mud, the color of his eyes. There was a quality of brutality about him, a nonchalant contempt.

In contrast with him, the fastidious Joseph Baynes appeared a little too delicate, small, and fragile. Tom Orville, a middle-sized man in his late thirties, shrank before this giant of a man, and his candid, fresh-colored face and eager eyes became the face and eyes of a schoolboy. Jim Purcell drained maturity from the other two visitors. And though Baynes and Orville were men of presentable and pleasing appearance, it was paradoxical that this huge and ugly man could make them seem puerile and insignificant and without vitality in comparison.

Once Tom Orville, a good-natured and kindhearted man usually, had remarked to Stephen that Jim Purcell was a “true prehistoric man,” both in appearance and in his blunted nature. Stephen, always uneasy when a depreciating remark was made about anyone, had found himself involuntarily laughing. He was sorry for the laughter later, though he had admitted that there was some truth in Orville’s flippant remark. But his perplexity over Purcell’s silent attachment to him, the seeking out of him by this dull-eyed and expressionless giant from their earliest childhood, increased rather than decreased.

There was another bewildering circumstance which had occurred in 1863. Tom Orville possessed a modest but flourishing lumber business. In 1860, in anticipation of large war orders, Orville had taken widespread options on local timber tracts. Larger lumber companies in the vicinity, anxious to remove this small competitor, and enraged that he had outmatched them in his foresight, persuaded the bank in Portersville, and banks in other nearby towns, not to advance him any money when the options came due. Purcell, himself, was invested in two of the larger lumber companies, and his word was law among the bankers. He had given his orders: Orville, the presumptuous, was to be eliminated, forced into bankruptcy.

Orville had come to his friend, Stephen deWitt, as Joseph Baynes had come to him later, in despair and frantic helplessness, threatening suicide, weeping for his wife and children. Stephen had anxiously searched his own financial resources, but saw that they were inadequate. He had pleaded with the president of the Portersville bank; he had visited other bankers in other towns. He had even gone to Philadelphia, and had offered the bankers there his collateral in behalf of Orville. He had been received with warm, if sheepish, courtesy. It did not occur to him that his request would be refused, for was he not the son of Aaron deWitt, and was not Aaron the close friend and associate of these men? But the request was refused, with inadequate excuses; and Stephen, sensing the acute embarrassment of the bankers, had had mercy on them, in spite of his own heartsickness.

He had then gone to Purcell, as a last resort, Purcell who was his mysterious familiar. He had gone with the deepest shrinking and reluctance, practically assured in himself that he would, of course, fail. He had sat in Purcell’s dusty, untidy, if luxurious, home, and he had advanced all the humanitarian and Christian arguments at his disposal, all the pleas for justice which could make his drab face so eloquent on occasion. And Purcell had listened patiently, but without expression. He had waited while Stephen made his promises to mortgage his future in behalf of his friend. He showed no quickening until this, and then he had fixed those lightless eyes upon Stephen with profound curiosity.

After all his pleas had been made, Stephen had sat exhausted, waiting for the inevitable refusal. And then Purcell had said, in his hoarse voice, “You want him to get the money from the banks? All right.”

They all sat about Stephen now. Purcell, after his first grunt of greeting, and his first muddy contemplation of Stephen, seated himself, swinging his great leg, and smoking an excessively foul pipe. He regarded space without expression, while Joseph and Tom asked Stephen about his health, and Aaron listened, silently chuckling.

Stephen tried to arouse himself from his lethargy. Not to speak, not to show some interest, would have seemed an unpardonable discourtesy to these kind and anxious friends of his. So he replied that he was improving; his voice was very weak and dwindled.

Joseph and Tom smiled at him with encouragement, but there was a crease of good-tempered impatience on Joseph’s forehead.

“This has been a fine day,” he remarked. “You ought to have aroused yourself and taken a drive, Steve.”

He and Tom exchanged one of their mutually supporting glances, and Tom nodded. In their opinion “Steve” was making a fool of himself by his prolonged sorrow over his wife. True, Alice had been a “nice” young thing in her way, and it was all very tragic. But a man couldn’t die because his wife had died, especially not a man Stephen’s age.

“The doctor,” Aaron placidly remarked from the fireplace, “said today that Steve’s not even well enough to sit out on that balcony yet.” He waved in the direction of the western window where a small terrace, guarded by wrought iron, jutted out over the abyss.

Joseph moved uncomfortably on his chair. Like Orville, he was afraid of Aaron. He said, with almost too eager an attempt at placating, “Well, perhaps the doctor is right. But all these months. … Poor Steve. Never knew lung fever to last so long. Three months at the most. He should be getting his strength back now.”

Jim Purcell said hoarsely, “Maybe he doesn’t want it back. Maybe he’s got reasons for not wanting it back.”

This seemed utterly ridiculous to the other two men, who, howeyer, dared not argue for fear of Purcell. Joseph leaned toward Stephen, trying to capture that sick and wandering eye, and he said with gentle earnestness, “Steve. What has happened is the will of God. Who are we to quarrel with Him? It’s an affront to Him to question His decrees.”

“Who says so?” Purcell asked. He turned in his chair and looked Joseph up and down with brutish dismissal.

“The Bible says so,” Tom replied uncertainly. “Our churches teach so.”

Joseph, who was superintendent of the First Methodist Church of Portersville, and who had long ago forgotten his own despair from which Stephen had saved him, said in a deepened and solemn voice, “‘Behold, happy is the man whom God correcteth: therefore despise not thou the chastening of the Almighty.’”

“Job,” said Aaron, nodding in his glee. “It was one of Job’s comforters who said that, didn’t he? Eliphaz.”

Joseph was astonished that one such as Aaron could know the Bible. He stammered, “You’re quite correct, Mr. deWitt.”

Jim Purcell nonchalantly emptied the contents of his odoriferous pipe in his hand, then tossed the brown mess into the fireplace. He very seldom remarked on anything, but now he quoted: “And Job replied, I kind of remember, ‘What is my strength, that I should hope? And what is mine end, that I should prolong my life?’ And if I remember rightly, it wasn’t Eliphaz who spoke in the name of God, who heard God. It was Job. Funny, isn’t it?”

Stephen moved his head in pain. The voices came to him from a gathering of shadows, and he could not distinguish one from the other. But an echo repeated itself over and over in the desolate and hollow places in his mind: “What is my strength, that I should hope? And what is mine end, that I should prolong my life?”

The others were too amazed at Purcell’s rumbling quotation of the Bible to do anything but stare at him blankly, with the exception of Aaron. How dared this powerful rascal, this lumpish giant and brute, quote Holy Writ? It was blasphemy. Joseph ducked his head with apprehensive politeness toward Purcell, but had the courage to say, “Job said that when he was in the very pit of his lost faith in God. Later, he understood.”

“You’re wrong, Baynes. He never lost faith in God. It’s just you mealymouths who never had faith in Him, and that’s why you can quote Him so readily.”

Purcell swung his huge body cumbrously toward Stephen, whose head was bent on his chest. “Steve,” he called roughly. He waited. Stephen did not look up; he had not heard. Then Purcell lumbered to his feet, walked to the sick man, and pushed his shoulder none too gently. Stephen raised his head and tried to fix his glazed eyes on that doughlike face. “Steve,” repeated Purcell, and his voice was almost a roar. “Listen to me. Grieve yourself out. If you find it’s too hard goin’, do somethin’ about it. You hear? A man don’t have to stand more than he can. It ain’t expected of him. But don’t linger on, tryin’ to make up your mind. You got a kid here. Is she worth livin’ for? Is she, Steve?”

That harsh and compelling voice caught Stephen’s attention, and he heard every word. “My child?” he muttered. “Yes, my child.”

“Well, then, is she worth livin’ for, that young’un? She’s all you’ve got, from Alice. Who’s goin’ to take care of her? Want her out on the street, Steve? Want her left alone—Alice’s kid? Goin’ to desert her? Make up your mind, once and for all.” He waited, then went on, more roughly than before, “You got an idea, way back in that soft skull of yourn, about what the world’s really like, though you won’t admit it to yourself. Want your kid to face the world alone, knowin’ what it is? Like you faced it? Got no mercy on Alice, eh, or Alice’s baby?”

Tears filled Stephen’s eyes. The room was utterly silent. Aaron leaned forward in the dusk, intently watching, but Joseph and Tom were looking at each other with carefully concealed and superior scorn.

“Make up your mind, Steve,” said Purcell. “You’re the one to decide. If livin’s too much for you, do somethin’ about it. If the kid’s somethin’ to you, make up your mind about that. That’s what you’re tryin’ to do, isn’t it? Make up your mind?”

Joseph was moved to say, “Jim, are you trying to tell Stephen that he’s deliberately—”

Purcell turned his mammoth head and surveyed Joseph with contempt. “Yes. And what about it? It takes a brave man to die, not a coward, like you church folk are always sayin’.”

He came back to Stephen. “What about it, feller? Goin’ to stay around and protect that kid from you-know-who, or goin’ to shuffle off? I’d kind of like to know, so I can select the flowers.”

“I think,” said Aaron blandly, “that he’s made his choice. He’s moving away. Perhaps a good idea, considering everything. And Jim,” he added, laughing, “you know the child won’t be ‘out on the street.’ She’s got a very loving family left, her grandpa and grandma, and her Uncle Rufus. And her cousin, too. We’ll all take care of Laura. Steve, you can rely on that.”

The world had come back to Stephen with awful clarity, for the first time since Alice died. Alice. Alice’s child, and his, left to this world, this terrible and pain-filled world of loneliness and cruelty and hate! He had never thought of.it before. He could not remember the face of his child; he could not remember if she had ever been brought to him. He stirred in his chair, and the movement was like a convulsion. He lifted up his wasted hands and cried out feebly, “The baby! I must see the baby!”

Purcell and Aaron exchanged a curious glance, then Aaron nodded and pulled the bell rope again. “Why do you torment him so, Jim?” asked Joseph, gaining courage in his concern for Stephen, so mercilessly attacked by this beast. “Let him rest.”

“He’s been too long tryin’ to make up his silly mind,” Purcell answered. “If he’s got a mind at all, and not porridge in his skull.”

Joseph hesitated. “Steve,” he said, with kind urgency, “you must get well; we miss you, boy. It’s been bad; but you still have your friends. …”

“Why, yes,” grunted Purcell. “He still has his friends, don’t he?” He left Stephen and went to the wide western window and looked out indifferently. His big fingers filled his pipe with remarkable precision and economy of movement. He struck a lucifer on the heel of his dirty boot, lit the pipe. He leaned against the side of the window. The stark mountains bulked in black and purple against the brilliant gold and scarlet sky, and the narrow river between the clefts of them ran in fire.

Tom joined Joseph. They stood on each side of Stephen, forgetting, in their distress for their friend, the two other inimical personalities in the room. They pleaded with Stephen; they exhorted, made small rallying jokes, laughed a little. They did not know that he did not really hear them at all. When they paused for a moment, he repeated in a thin, intense voice, “I want to see my child.”

A servant entered the room, and Aaron said, “Ask Mrs. Rufus to bring in Mr. Steve’s baby. She’ll be in the nursery now.” He carried a large glass of whisky to Stephen and pushed it into his hand. “Come on, drink. No more tonics. Throw this down like a man.”

Joseph straightened, and said anxiously, “Do you think it’s best, Mr. deWitt? I’ve heard that whisky is very bad for men who are recovering from lung fever.”

Purcell, without turning, remarked to no one in particular, “When a man’s got to make a decision, he’d better take the edge off himself. Hell. He never had lung fever anyway. Go on, Steve; drink it.”

Stephen, finding a glass in his hand, automatically lifted it to his lips. Even in his anguish he was unable to offend anyone.

“That’s right, throw it down,” Aaron repeated. The fumes and the taste of the liquor revolted Stephen, and he made an instinctive gesture of repudiation. But when he looked up he saw, not the faces of Joseph and Tom, silently protesting, but the grinning face of his father and the doughy mass which was the face of Jim Purcell.

Lydia deWitt entered the room carrying Stephen’s child in a blue shawl. Her concerned eyes went to Stephen immediately, and she approached him at once. Joseph and Tom greeted her; Aaron ignored her, but Jim Purcell, leaning against the wall near the window, studied her with coarse openness. She saw this and smiled, and for a moment the protuberances and pits which formed the man’s face moved into the formation of a smile also.

“I think,” said Aaron, “that we’d better take our whisky downstairs and finish it. Rufe’s due home any minute now, and we can sit by the fire and have another drink with him.”

The three men followed him, Joseph and Tom keeping well together, Jim Purcell following. The door closed behind them, and Stephen, darkly flushed and sweating with weakness, sank back in his chair and closed his eyes. Lydia drew a small chair close to him and sat down, and then she waited. The child whimpered, and she began to sing to it softly, in her strong yet gentle voice, holding it close to her breast. The room filled with the sound of the fire, the crying of the wind, and Lydia’s soothing lullaby. The dusk made everything shadowy in the room while the conflagration darkened beyond the window.

Finally Stephen said faintly, “Lydia.” She raised her head and regarded him with grave attention. “Lydia,” he repeated.

“Yes, Stephen?” The child lay on her knees, and she did not move. Stephen lifted his hand as though it was an enormous weight and indicated the baby with it. “I haven’t seen—her, I don’t believe,” he whispered.

Lydia rose at once and went to him. She folded back the shawl, and he saw the face of his child for the first time. The baby lay in Lydia’s protecting arms, a very small creature with thin little hands and a pale and pointed face in which the eyes were questioning gray circles. The last crimson light of the sunset illuminated the child, and Stephen, pulling himself away from the back of the chair with an effort that brought moisture visibly to his forehead, leaned forward, and father and daughter stared at each other mutely, each somber and motionless.

Then Stephen’s hand, moving like the hand of a blind man, fumblingly stretched itself out, hovered over the child. The hand sank, rose, hovered again. Finally it took the little hand of the baby, and held it. The fingers were as cold and as lifeless as his, and as still.

“It—she—is cold,” said Stephen painfully.

“Yes,” said Lydia, with softness and compassion. “She always is. Babies need love. And I’m afraid there isn’t much love in this house for her. I do what I can. But children, even as young as this, seem to know.”

There was no color on the small cheeks or on the little mouth. There was a seeking and lost expression in the gray eyes which had fastened themselves unsmilingly on Stephen. He could not bear it; tears began to run down his cheeks, tears of grief and remorse and deathly illness. He said, his voice breaking, “Put her in my arms, Lydia.”

He held his child to him, and kissed her, and she moved in his arms with a nestling movement, so that her small head was on his breast. Then Stephen cried out, “Look, Lydia! She is smiling!”