He thought: She knows I love her, and she loves me, too. We never stopped loving each other, all these years, in spite of everything.
He thought all this so clearly, so quietly. There was a sort of inevitability about this final realization between them. But he knew that it was also inevitable that they must never speak of it. So they looked at each other in that silence, and drew upon their individual resistance.
“I’ll walk with you to the house, Phyllis,” he said. “And don’t let Willie know—know that you’ve told me about the gift he’s buying for my birthday.”
She nodded. “No, Charles. I won’t let Wilhelm know.”
CHAPTER XVIII
They came out onto the crooked country road together. They walked in silence. But to Charles the silence had a fullness, a richness, even if it was sad and confused. He was not alone; if he was desolate, it was a desolation which was shared. One could stand pain, if there was someone present who suffered also.
He could see, out of the corner of his eye, the flutter of Phyllis’ skirt, the slight motion of her hand. Once or twice her fingers brushed his, accidentally. She, too, did not speak. He heard her light footstep on the earth, her breath. They walked through a blaze of evening sunshine, and then into the green shadow. Then they emerged onto Mountain Road, and saw the red roof of Wilhelm’s house in the distance above them.
There was the sound of wheels, and hoofs. They stood at the side of the road to let the approaching carriage pass. Then Charles saw that the carriage held his brother Jochen and Isabel. Isabel’s printed parasol, which matched her “garden dress,” was tilted over her handsome head, and she was laughing maliciously and Jochen was grinning. Evidently they were returning from the garden party at some home on the mountain, and having great fun over either their hosts or the guests.
“It’s Jochen and Isabel,” said Phyllis. She lifted her hand and waved gayly. Charles, annoyed that the sweetness of the last hour was being destroyed, frowned. Jochen, calling to his coachman to stop, was surprised. He was also alerted by Charles’ expression. As for Isabel, she stopped laughing, and stared.
“Well, well,” said Jochen. The carriage drew abreast of Charles and Phyllis. Jochen leaned over the side, and said, in a mincing voice: “Fancy seeing you here!” He grinned again.
“‘Fancy seeing you,’” repeated Charles. “I thought you were working this afternoon. Playing hookey, eh?”
“I worked late,” said Jochen, defensively. “But there was this damned party. Never saw such a set of bores. Wasted all this time. But the Browns are important people, you know.”
“Are they?” For some reason or other, Charles was increasingly annoyed. Phyllis was talking to Isabel, who mentioned the names of some of the guests, preeningly. Charles listened. Phyllis was smiling gently and tolerantly.
“The Bouchards didn’t wire, or call,” Jochen was saying.
“We’ll hear from them next week,” answered Charles, indifferently. Isabel was chatting on and on, bridling, and Phyllis was polite. Why didn’t Jochen get out of the carriage? It was only courteous. But he sat there, in his garden-party outfit, and talked of the Bouchards, and looked repeatedly at Phyllis with a curious gleam in his eyes. Charles then noticed that Isabel’s own eyes were sliding back and forth between him and Phyllis. It was a way she had, but he had never been so irritated by it before. He thought the sliding look was very quick and knowing, and he said to himself again that he certainly did not like Isabel. He wanted her to be done with her prattling so that he could go on with Phyllis. Why was Phyllis so patient, listening as if Isabel’s account of the party was very interesting?
Jochen said: “Been rolling around in the grass, Charlie? You’re covered with it.”
Isabel’s prattle stopped abruptly. Her face, under the shadow of the parasol, was intent. Charles looked down at his prosy suit. It was indeed scattered over with blades of grass. He brushed them off: “We were in the woods,” he said. “Sitting and talking.”
Phyllis was relieved that the conversation had left the magnificence of the garden party. “Such a hot day,” she remarked. “I went into that circle, and Charles came. It was very pleasant.”
“I should think it would be,” said Isabel, in the softest, slowest voice. She glanced at Jochen. Then, very animatedly, she went on: “Such a romantic place, Jochen and I used to meet there, before we were married. Too.” She waited. No one spoke. Phyllis retained her agreeable and charming expression. Charles’ boredom increased. It was strange that his instinct, usually so reliable, did not stir, even in the face of his brother’s odd expression and Isabel’s faint smirk. He saw Isabel’s pink tongue secretively moistening her red lips. He only knew that he really actively disliked her.
“Well,” he said, glancing at his watch.
Phyllis invited Jochen and Isabel for tea, but Isabel, her eyes endlessly sliding and glinting, laughingly remarked that she and her husband had had all the tea they wished for one day. “But give our love to Wilhelm,” she said. “Can we expect you, tomorrow, Phyllis? It’s the day you and Wilhelm usually call.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to come alone,” replied Phyllis. She appeared a little distressed. “I’m so sorry, and I know Wilhelm will be, too. You see, he’s in Philadelphia, and I don’t expect him back until Monday.”
Isabel stared at her. Then she looked at her husband. “I see,” she said, thoughtfully.
It came to Charles again that there was something mysteriously gross about Isabel, sitting there so elegantly in her carriage, with her parasol and her Paris frock and her gloves and her dainty air. This grossness was very evident, in Phyllis’ presence. Phyllis, who appeared all lightness and gentle serenity. And why was Isabel regarding Phyllis like that, long and slyly, and why was Jochen so alert, staring, too, at Phyllis?
“Well,” said Charles, again. “I think we’d better go on, Phyllis. I’ll have that tea, or something, with you.”
He touched Phyllis’ elbow, lightly. It was the touch of a husband, urging, yet protective. Jochen and Isabel saw it.
Graciously, Isabel said goodbye, tilted her parasol in a playful gesture, and Jochen applied two fingers to a hat he had not removed. Charles and Phyllis went on together, not looking back as the carriage rolled away.
Charles’ sure instinct had begun, belatedly, to stir, though he could give no name to it. He only knew that he was vaguely uneasy. He said, as he helped Phyllis over some stones in the road: “Joe. And Isabel. They like to be prominent, don’t they?” Then he was embarrassed, and covered his embarrassment with a laugh. “No harm in them, though. Just their way of acquiring importance.”
Phyllis laughed. “Oh, Charles, don’t be so afraid of being malicious! It’s only human, and, natural. I’m quite often malicious.”
He laughed, with her. “I suppose you think I’m an egotist, when I try to be ‘tolerant,’ don’t you?”
She was delighted. “Yes, of course! You are entirely too virtuous, Charles.”
He saw her face, merry and sweet. The strain had gone from it, and it was young, and even joyous. He knew that for the first time in many days he, himself, felt a sort of freedom, even a senseless elation. He and Phyllis laughed together uncontrollably, as if they had been having a conversation full of extraordinary humor. Their somber talk in the woods was forgotten. The evening sky was purpling above them; far below, the river was the color of brilliant copper.
But still, the dim uneasiness remained in Charles, behind all the release and the gaiety. They reached the gates of Wilhelm’s house, and Charles stopped abruptly. He took off his hat.
“Phyllis, I’m awfully sorry, but I can’t stay. You don’t mind too much, do you?”
For one moment, she was deeply disappointed. Then she was quiet and still. She put out her hand. “It’s perfectly all right, Charles,” she said.
He took her hand. He wanted to press it briefly, then let it go. But he could not do it. He wanted to turn, and leave. Instead, he stood there, and as
they had looked at each other in the woods so they looked at each other now, gravely and sadly.
“Good night, Phyllis,” he said.
“Good night, Charles.” She took her hand from his. He opened the gate for her. He stood and watched her tall slight figure go up the drive. At the bend she glanced back, and paused. She was outlined against the lonely sky. She lifted her hand and waved to him, and he waved in return. Then she continued on her way and there was nothing about him but silence and the evening wind, and the old desolation.
Jochen and Isabel, too, were silent in the carriage as it carefully rolled down the mountain road. Jochen sat on his seat, large and fattish, his lips pursed, his eyes narrowed. Isabel watched him under the parasol. She waited for her husband to speak, but he remained silent. She coughed, delicately. “Well, really, it was rather indiscreet, wasn’t it?” she murmured.
“What?” He turned to her. He frowned, but she saw it was pretense.
“Charles and Phyllis.”
“What about them?”
She lowered her voice so the coachman could not hear. “Of course, it’s nothing at all, but people could—misinterpret. They ought to be more careful. It’s just as well no one else saw them, but us, isn’t it? Others might not understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand,” said Jochen, with immense carelessness. “Old Charlie’s an innocent,” he added.
Isabel gave her light laugh. “Perhaps not so innocent.” She paused. “I sometimes wonder if he ever regretted marrying Mary. After all he was once engaged to Phyllis, wasn’t he?”
“Oh, that’s all over. In fact, I don’t suppose there ever was anything.” Jochen’s voice was elaborately offhand.
“But still, it was indiscreet.”
They looked at each other, and smiled, and their smiles were not pleasant. Somewhere, in the recesses of Jochen’s mind the incident was being carefully filed away. He said: “Best not to mention it to anybody. People talk, you know, Isabel. And there’s Gerry. Old Charlie would be kind of mad if it came back to him. Must be careful.”
Still, he remembered. He thought of Charles and Phyllis, standing there in the road, near the carriage. It was not mere bad manners which had kept his hat on his head in Phyllis’ presence. It was his secret hatred for her, and his contempt for her. There had always been a latent hostility between them. Jochen did not believe that she and Charles were involved in even the slightest intrigue. She, Phyllis, did not have the robustness for it, and as for old Charlie, Jochen thought, the ripest woman would be safe with him.
Jochen said: “Now, don’t pout, my precious. Just remember we have to watch out for ourselves.”
Isabel understood. She gave Jochen a tender smile, and patted his hand. He squeezed her arm, a warm round arm, and he flushed. There was never a woman to compare with Isabel.
CHAPTER XIX
That Saturday night Mr. Ralph Grimsley had placed a curious but conspicuous insertion on the front page of every issue of the Clarion. No one could miss it; it was outlined by a thick wavy border, calculated to catch the most indifferent eye.
“The Reverend Mr. Joseph Haas, prominent and respected minister of the First Lutheran Church of Andersburg, will give a sermon on a most vital subject at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. It is believed that this sermon is so important, not only to the people of Andersburg, but also to all the American people, that the Clarion urges everyone, irrespective of religious denomination, to hear this sermon, and attend the services.”
Nothing like this had ever been written in the Clarion before, and it aroused immense curiosity and speculation. It was known that Mr. Grimsley had only a cavalier courtesy for Mr. Haas, and that he often spoke of him lightly as “our gilded minister.” Everyone said, after reading this item, that the Reverend Mr. Haas must indeed have something of significance to say. Otherwise, Mr. Grimsley would not have inserted the notice.
Consequently, though it was a hot August Sunday, so sultry that one could hardly breathe, and with a blazing sky ominously piled, in the east, with thunderheads, the big white church began to fill as early as half-past nine. Family pews, usually less than half-filled even on religious holidays, soon became congested with the stiff white skirts and shirtwaists and white gloves and big straw hats of the women, and the formal, hot black figures of their husbands.
The ushers had never seen anything like it. There were folding seats tucked away in store-rooms, dusty from disuse. The ushers, by quarter to ten, were sweatingly scurrying to these store-rooms, catching up dust-cloths from closets, and hastily wiping off the chairs, which were to be placed at the rear of the church, and even in the side aisles. At five minutes to ten even these chairs were filled, and a crowd was hovering at the great open doors, looking in vain for seats. The sun poured in through the stained-glass windows, poured in through the doors. Palm-leaf fans made a soft rustling in the decorously murmurous quiet, and could be heard even above the soft chords of the organ. The church was alive with moving hats and heads; the heat was so great that the perfume of the late roses set in vases near the altar could be detected even in the last pews, and added to the general discomfort. But everyone was excited, everyone crowded up against his neighbor. Not only was practically every member present, but it was obvious that members of other churches were also attending, either as guests of members or just seating themselves at random in the plebeian pews without family plates.
The service began; the choir, obviously excited themselves, were unable to control the tremors in their politely trained voices. But this only added to the momentousness of the occasion. The worshippers stood up, rustling, sat down with louder rustlings, at the proper intervals. The church was tumultuous with a thunder of responses; the brittle sound of the leaves of prayer-books was like the sound of a summer wind.
Charles had brought his son, Jimmy. He was surprised to see his brother Jochen enter the family pew, not only with Isabel, but with his three daughters, Geraldine, May, and Ethel. Jochen did not particularly like Mr. Haas. He had been candid in his opinion that Mr. Haas was “a big, affable rabbit, who never said anything.” But Jochen had come. It was apparent that he was annoyed, but it was also apparent that he was curious. He shot Charles a rather sharp glance, nodded, seated himself pompously. This was all foolishness, his meaty shoulders and stiff neck declared. Phyllis had come; she sat near Isabel, all in white. She gave Charles a faintsmile; her eyes, he saw, were very serious. She understood. But then, Phyllis always understood everything.
The supreme, paralyzing surprise occurred when Friederich Wittmann arrived just after the service had commenced. Charles, Jochen, Isabel, and Phyllis, stared with round-eyed disbelief. Friederich, surlily ignoring all his relatives, crowded roughly beside his niece Ethel, who regarded him blankly, her mouth open. Friederich was as untidy and dusty as always. Only Charles noticed that he was grimly defiant, that his small brown eyes glittered. He did not open a prayer-book; he did not rise when the others rose. He just sat there, thin arms folded across his chest, glaring at the minister.
Jochen leaned across his wife and sister-in-law and whispered to Charles, underneath the music of the choir, and the responses of the people: “Well, I’ll be damned!” Charles smiled slightly, spoke the next response louder. Friederich was not seen to blink as he waited for the minister to begin his sermon. This was his first appearance since the funeral of his father, and now neighbors began to notice him and to whisper behind fans and prayer-books. Friederich ignored them, also, with gigantic contempt.
Charles was uneasy. He was ashamed of his brother’s untidy clothing, his soiled collar, his dirty cuffs, his wrinkled tie. Then he was more ashamed of his conservative shame. Why had Friederich come? Did he have the slightest idea of what the subject of the service would be? Charles was positive that only he and the minister knew. He hoped that Friederich would not create any disturbance. If necessary Jochen and he could suppress Friederich, even if Jochen might be violently antagonistic to the sermon.
&nbs
p; Mr. Haas’ appearance had newly excited the people. Usually he wore a bland sweet expression, full of holiness and gravity, with perhaps a genial twinkle of the eye above it all. He always conducted the services in a most urbane fashion, big and handsome and contained in his august black robes. But now he exuded a tenseness and subdued passion never seen before. He was very pale; he looked older, and very tired, but also very determined. His voice did not quaver; it was very quiet, penetrating, and thoughtful. For the first time since Charles could remember, he was the priest, militant, austere, and firm.
But he is afraid, thought Charles, with a profound shame. He will speak out of his fortitude and his anger and his justice. He will do it all, no matter the consequences to himself; he will not temper his speech; he will speak outright. But still, he is afraid. How terrible it is for a priest to be fearful, not for, but of, his flock.
Mr. Haas held several pamphlets in his hands. The last chords of the organ died away. Now there was a great hush in the church. Mr. Haas looked at his people for a long moment or two. Then Charles saw that the minister was praying; his eyes did not leave the crowded faces below him, but his mouth moved soundlessly.
Then, all at once, Charles saw that Mr. Haas was no longer afraid. He began to read, quietly but sonorously. He turned the pages of the pamphlets, betraying no contempt. His voice was dispassionate. He read excerpt after excerpt, neutrally. The people listened, with eyes and ears intent upon the speaker. They leaned forward, not to miss a word. Some, believing they knew in advance what Mr. Haas would say about these pamphlets, nodded meaningly, smiled maliciously. Charles saw the polite hatred on their faces. Wait, he thought, grimly.