_Chapter Six_
On Saturday began a long lisping April rain. Mr. Hibbs pointed out thatanyhow the boys' half-holiday had been used up on the Friday forenoon,and although this happened because of disaster, in logic that made nodifference: the spring and summer would be all too short if Ben andReuben were to be ready for Harvard in September. Mr. Hibbs said toothat man born of woman is of few days and full of trouble; in otherwords they'd better quit the commotion and go to work.
Mr. Kenny spent all of that day in Boston, returning late and weary in atwitching mood. It was one of the evenings, more frequent of late, whenhe insisted that no one but Ben or Reuben understood how to lift theboot off his gouty foot. Ben did that, as Kate stood by in tears, andfrom shadow at the side of the fireplace Reuben watched the old man withthe bemused intentness of one who has only recently discovered that thestudy of human beings may begin at home. Reuben Cory had hardly spokenall day, except as the lessons required it of him....
When the boot was safely removed and the foot installed on a cushion,Ben ventured to ask whether any more had been learned concerning thedeath of Jan Dyckman. "Nor is like to be!" John Kenny snarled. "The lawhath the brain of a gnat, meaning no dem'd disrespect to Mr. Derry,blast him! Cease crying, Kate! I'll not be in my grave for another tenor twenty years, and should you weep even then, dear, I'll rise to ha'ntyou, I swear it--now there's a good girl." Since she could not check theflow, Kate bounced away to build a hot toddy, and later beckoned fromthe doorway for Ben to come and take it to him, lest her continuedsniffling should offend.
Marsh had not been found; no sign of him, no hint of where he might havelodged. The waiter and bartender at the Lion Tavern professed totalignorance of such a man. "They'll be lying," said Reuben from hisshadow, and John Kenny shifted his head in discomfort until he was inbetter posture to look at Reuben down his nose. "Lying, Reuben, orunobservant or forgetful. I incline somewhat to your view. It would seemthat Mr. Derry, after one day of sniffing about like an old blind ferretwith a cold in the nose, is prepared to write off the happening as anact of God."
When the toddy was consumed, and Mr. Kenny's clay pipe drawing properly,and the lashing mutter of rain at the windows had become no longer anagging but a comfortable sound, Ben stirred the logs to stronger flameand said, stuttering only slightly: "Uncle John, is there any market forsalt cod in New York?"
Long and drowsily, John Kenny contemplated a mild, large-eyed boy'sface, high at the forehead, the jaw square but rounded at the chin, andthe benediction upon it of firelight not unlike a lamp within. Towardsuch a lamp one might spread cold hands to warm them. "Mph! Might be."
Reuben smiled to himself and slipped out of the room, and so did nothear it when Ben inquired whether Mr. Shawn was to be considered in theroom of Jan Dyckman. "Why, Ben--as a matter of fact I must give thatsome further thought," said John Kenny.
Later Ben said: "Uncle John, if _Artemis_ should make a quick run, nofurther than New York and return, might I not--I mean, sir, I'd be goneonly a few weeks, and could learn----"
"Now don't press me about that. I must give it more thought. Did we notgo to Cambridge not long ago and discuss your situation with Mr.Leverett himself? Did he not examine you in beginner's Greek and inLatin, and find that even with the summer's work you may be scarce readyfor the first year's studies?"
"But suppose, sir--Ru is ready, as Mr. Leverett said, and certainly heought to begin in September--but suppose I were to wait another year?Then I might go with _Artemis_ now--might I not?--and earn something,and continue studies afterward, in the winter, and next summer when Rucould aid me, and so...."
"Ben, you would sail as a ship's boy. If you endured the hardships, andsatisfied Mr. Jenks in matters of heavy labor and obedience, the whichis no easy thing to do, you might fairly soon achieve the proudcondition of an ordinary seaman. They have a saying: 'Six days shaltthou labor as hard as thou art able; the seventh, holystone the maindeck and chip the chain cable.' They say also: 'No law offsoundings'--and I'm afraid that's true, though I guess the law accordingto Peter Jenks is just enough in its own harsh way. They have evenanother saying--I suppose it was repeated by the men who followed JohnQuelch a few years ago and were hanged with him at Copp's Hill: 'Bettera short gasp on a tricing line than a long hunger, short pay and thebloody scurvy.'"
"But at least, Uncle John, there would not be the expense of my keephere, and I would be----"
"What? You're troubled that I should spend my substance on mineown--my--like a son--why, Ben, the old have little enough they can doexcept give. I pray you allow me to do that much."
"And I pray you, Uncle John, understand me! I did not mean it like that.I meant--if I sailed, I'd be learning things that might make me of someuse to you in the business."
"Oh? So?... Well, you know that's near my heart. A few days ago you wasundecided. We spoke of it, coming home from seeing _Artemis_ return--didwe not?"
"Yes, Uncle John."
"And I feared I was nursing an old man's vanity. Urging on you somethingthat might be unwelcome.... Mind you, Ben, I am not your master and noone shall be. I will not say to you, go there, do this, as I might tothe common sort. Somehow, of late years, I don't much fancy the meaningthey give to the word 'gentleman' in England. Joseph Cory was a farmer,and a better gentleman than any milord in London. Yes, in this land theword doth seem to be earning a new definition, or maybe it did alway ownit, but title-dazed Europe is in no posture to comprehend such a thing.You are a gentleman's son, Ben. I say there's an aristocracy which hathnothing at all to do with wealth or position, nor with ancestry neitherexcept as a parent's good qualities do often appear in the children. Imean the aristocracy of the good mind with the good heart--you will notfind that very often on earth, Benjamin. You are a gentleman, and no onemay order you about, only guide a little, so far as love and friendshipmay do it, while you--while you are yet a boy."
Ben felt the fire in his cheeks, and dreaded stammering. "Well, sir,might it not be that sailing with _Artemis_ would help me decide, or atleast understand better, what I wish to do?"
"It--might.... Mind, I've not said yea or nay. Don't press me more on itnow. It may be two weeks yet before _Artemis_ is ready to go. Mr.Banning of Gloucester is delaying me. His dem'd price is too dear,noticed it a thousand times. Uh--don't you think so?"
If Reuben had been in the room he would have known how Ben, in the faceof all common sense, was very nearly taking that to mean yes. He wouldhave seen how the inner lamp steadied and brightened in a manner hardlyreasonable when the overt topic was nothing more ecstatic than thecurrent value of salt codfish. Why, the old man had not even said that_Artemis_ would put out for New York instead of Barbados....
On Sunday the rain continued. Rob Grimes, an accomplished backsliderwith sixty-odd years of sin to his credit, marched off to meeting asusual and retained sanctity like a best suit until Monday morning, whenMr. Kenny's nervous gray gelding acted up at sight of the saddle andcaused the first lapse into blasphemy. It was a conspiracy of the Powersagainst Rob, that everything should always go wrong on Monday morning,so that for the rest of the week his state of grace should be nothingbut a God-damned ruin. Kate Dobson slipped away to the Anglican servicesthat she found a comfort in a barbarous land. John Kenny fretted athome--even he might have been subject to arrest and fine for unnecessarytravel on the Sabbath--fretted like one under enchantment who must spenda certain twenty-four hours of every week in the guise of a rabbit, ashrewd one who knows very well that if he should venture abroad wherethe godly are baying he'd be a gone bunny.
In their first year at Roxbury, Ben and Reuben had been similarlyhousebound on the Lord's day. But on a morning of urgent springtime inthe year 1705, Reuben had advanced the doctrine that one could easilypass from the back door through the orchard and to the woods with nodanger of detection, and look: anyone who did observe the sin would befar from any route to the meeting-house and therefore a sinner himself;wouldn't he? "Besides, sir," said Reuben Cory, "we've a'ready don
e it acouple-three times." "Oh," said John Kenny. "I find your reasoningfaultless but incomplete. You omit, Mr. Cory, reference to the necessityof wearing your brown suits that don't show at a distance, and ofpromising to avoid the sky line and open places. Some say reason dothadvance, even in these times. I a'n't sure. Wear your brown suits...."
On the Sunday after the death of Jan Dyckman, the rain was heavy enoughto discourage even Reuben's need to wander. He felt it unsafe to go toMr. Welland's cottage, for part of the approach out of the back fieldswas visible from the main street of Roxbury; and anyway Ben shamefacedlydeclared he needed help with the next half-acre of Cicero.
Drearily it rained on the Monday when Jan Dyckman was buried.
More time lost to lessons: Gideon Hibbs nourished that thought soobviously that there was no occasion for him to utter it aloud. He wasnot attending the funeral, having been only distantly acquainted withthe Dyckman family. Acidly, with a kind of humor occasionallyencountered at the borders of philosophy, he remarked to John Kenny thathe was the fourth son in a family of twelve; all his brothers andsisters had married and begotten young, of whom the expected percentagehad died, and thus he found himself already in possession of a massivecollection of pallbearer's gloves, for the which he could discover nopractical application whatsoever (although familiar with the rumor thatsome persons of a weightier worth than himself had turned a fair pennyin disposing of such); he would therefore, with Mr. Kenny's permission,remain at home and take advantage of the peace and quiet to do a triflemore on a work which had engaged him now for ten years, namely anemployment of the sternest logic--(it could not be published in thecolonies)--in a demonstration of the immortality of the soul. Mr. Kennysighed and patted his dusty back.
The few who were present with Mr. Kenny and the boys bulked like amultitude in the spotless parlor of the Dyckman house. More unobtrusivethan the Jenks' slave Clarissa, Constable Derry was there--so far as wasknown, the corpse had not bled in anyone's presence. There were Jan'stwo small girls red-nosed in doll-like silence, his stricken wife, ahandful of dour strangers, Captain Jenks thoroughly sober and lookinglike the vast man he was instead of a ruin, Faith and Charity stiff andamazingly pale in black, Clarissa self-effacing, and Madam PrudenceJenks with a black enameled comb instead of a red one.
The Lutheran dominie did not exhort, nor shout, nor whine, but spoke allmanner of pleasant things concerning the nature of the dead man, andthen entered on the main stream of his discourse--this a poeticenumeration and description of the mercies of God, announced with mildcertainty as though he had been directly instructed in the matter andhad been astonished at the kindness of the Lord in assenting to some ofhis own small suggestions. Unhesitatingly he implied that if any soulcould rest sure of heaven it was the soul of Jan Dyckman. A gentlespirit, this minister: incapable of learning how to be content withdiscontent, he had luckily never needed to learn it, since not every sonof Adam is obliged to go to school.
At some time during this passage of consolation a kerchief tumbled fromFaith's restless hand. Ben was able to find and return it to her, notprevented, not even much scared by the polar stare of Captain Jenks. Hewon a pressure of her fingers and a sudden blue-eyed look of such depthand sweetness that she might have been saying aloud: "I am with you."Reuben sat motionless, all gold and ivory.
The minister's tender music did not touch on the fact of murder, yetsomehow conveyed that this was an aspect of the infinite wisdom of Godwhich at the present time it was not polite to mention.
The mellow voice was larger but otherwise not changed, when in thecemetery under a slanting curtain of rain it recited the last words ofcommitment to the earth. Here Ben and Reuben stood together and glancedoften at each other--communication, as any observer would have known,but under this quiet rain perhaps only one message passed, the simplestand the most essential: I am with you.
It rained all night.
In the morning at Roxbury pools of standing water translated the imageof a warmer sky, for it was now well past the time of the return of therobins, and of the bluebirds whose color of morning is a music madevisible. Once in such a pool at the base of a rock near Uncle John'sprivate road--but that was another April, the April of last year--adistant self of Ben Cory had been revived, so that the older boy couldmomentarily breathe with the breath of that child and rejoice in thesunlight wantoning over the child's bare chest and legs and muddy feet.He had been five then or younger, master of a vessel on a sea of shiningcalm--a chip with an oak-leaf sail, a pond in a world no longer living:well, in the immediate world you must write down a Latin subjunctive ahundred times, whipping an intractable brain into retaining it, and bythe way, what the devil did Ovid himself care about subjunctives when itwas spring in Italy? Nothing, Ru would say--subjunctive's one small stepin a stairway to a place up yonder where you might get a glimpse ofOvid; and Ru would take the book from him, and tumble across the bed inhis thin-legged sprawl or sit on the floor with his almost beardlesschin hooked on his knees, and listen while Ben groped and stumbledthrough the lesson--correcting Ben casually, guiding, sometimes rippingout lewd or startling comment to make the Latin stick in Ben's mind byassociation, and never once needing to open the blasted volume and makesure he was right....
By the same pool in the April of 1707, this present year of change,Reuben Cory had stared as through a window on the inverted blue ofheaven; had knelt by the rock to find white violets, the first to come,miniature, early-waking, with a midget purple eye. Hurried bees haddiscovered them before him, since it is not enough for these restlessinnocent to store up summer in the honeycomb, but with the earliestwarmth they must be out and seeking in hunger. He heard then theincessant whispering, the waters of the earth returning to the broaderstreams, to the sea, the sky, the earth again, the waters of spring.
Drifting away to the south pasture and the woods, Reuben heard also acatbird in a budding thicket, chuckling and mewling and singing in adozen voices, attempting alone the merriment of a full choir, soundingthe bravura of summer before its time, fantastic, strong and sweet asthe reed of the horned god. Furry silver softness of pussy willows shoneat the edge of the woods; further in, he found the never-distant symbolsof struggle and pain, for the tips of the wild grape were becomingfingers, later to grow aggressive, cruel in silent pressure, though allthey seek is an island of space in the sunlight. He heard the peeperfrogs, the delicate violence in their amorous throats, and now and thenthe ponderous grumble of a big frog, not yet sustained in the organpointof summer but large as the owl-voices that had been disturbing the nightwoods all winter long. He watched a robin carrying mud with a purpose,and other small architects concerned with the foundations of secrethouses, and sat long silent in his watching; silent and thinking now andagain of something said by Mr. Welland which seemed not unrelated tospringtime and the nesting of birds: "I do believe in God, Reuben, but Imust tell you my faith is rather like that of a man on a cloudy day whohath some notion the sun may come out before evening. Should the skyremain overcast he will not be too sadly dismayed and may fall asleepwith ease. And I suggest, it is no belittling of mine own faith, that Ireject the arrogance of certainty."
Silent--so long that a box turtle placed a blundering claw on his shoebefore it understood that Reuben was no rock. Reuben moved his hand idlyto make it withdraw hissing into the sanctuary; he held his footmotionless, until by degrees the little bothered head emerged, vague andsad like Jesse Plum's, and the creature lurched away to safety. Reubenforgot it, listening to the wind and the voices of a thousand hungerswithin him, almost but not quite seeing the airy rising in mist ofcastles in Spain, almost but not quite hearing the reed of the hornedgod that makes a mockery of everything but blind desire and the need toembrace the fleeing sun-dappled body in the country of Arcadia.
Then from near bushes another music streamed, three notes of purity, thelast one twice repeated; notes at intervals true to the human scale butsung as no one sings them except a white-throated sparrow who has comehome to April in New Eng
land. But even under the glow of this musicReuben's human brain must at once observe how bounteous nature includesthe porcupine's quill festering in helpless flesh, the needle teeth of aweasel in a rabbit's neck, the scar on Ben Cory's lip, the drop of ahawk, smallpox, the death of Deerfield, a pencil sketch of unredeemablesorrow in Mr. Welland's surgery, the husband-eating habits of spiders,the right eye of the boy Wilks gouged out by a cutlass; and so it wouldseem there's no help for it, but the brain must continue, trying in someconfusion to kill wolves and learn how to be content with discontent. Itwill not say: _What is man, that thou art mindful of him?_ Such mockhumility, Reuben thought, is iniquitous rubbish, in the presence of thewhitethroat's music and the drawings of Vesalius, for if the humancreature and the sparrow are not beings of wonder and infinite depththen nothing is wonderful under the North Star.
On cool mornings after fog, Ben Cory liked to search out the green ofpoplar bark still damp, a green softer and stranger than any other onearth, seeming translucent, leading the mind to green oceans.
Ben Cory knew as well as anyone that the country beyond the magic ofpoplar bark is not to be entered, and may be declared what you will.
There as here, like the reed of the horned god demanding and perilous,the west winds move beyond the green land and over blue-green wavesremote from land.
* * * * *
The days crawled with inky toil into another Saturday afternoon, and BenCory was once more free to invade Boston. This time he could ride hismare to the Jenks house--ride like a gentleman, with a soliddetermination not to fall from grace, no, not in the lightestparticular.
In the morning, Uncle John also had gone to Boston, as he seldom did ona Saturday. Since that evening a week ago when Ben had presumed to speakout, Uncle John had appeared withdrawn in a puzzling way--even moresince the gray hours of the funeral--almost as though he regrettedhaving allowed young Benjamin to talk up like a man. It created abackground trouble for Ben's thought: maybe he had made a fool ofhimself after all; maybe on second thought Uncle John had found itdownright insulting, the idea that his _Artemis_ should abandon the richjourney to the Indies and operate like a cheap ferry tub in the coastaltrade. Only background: even the fear he had managed to discuss withReuben, that John Kenny's fortune might tumble suddenly at the assaultof creditors, could not dominate such an afternoon as this, when thewarmth of June had arrived to blend with the crystal freshness of theend of April, and the girl Faith was in the garden by the house, alone,kneeling to lift with a pink finger tip the golden face of a jonquil.
Ben jumped down, not able to look again and pretend to discover heruntil he had made a careful business of hitching his mare to the post inthe street, rubbing the hairy foolish nose and murmuring the words oldMolly usually required before she would stand quiet and go to dreamingin the sun. He could turn then, but (such is the bewildering skill ofwomen) Faith was still engaged with the daffodil. Only at that momentdid she rise, glance toward the house, lift a hand in the light to pushback a strand of hair under her little cap, brush away a clinging leaffrom the softness of her brown skirt, and then at long last step awayfrom the bed of flowers to find Ben Cory at the gate, with a wondrousflush of surprise. "Oh, Benjamin, you startled me!" Her right handjumped to her mouth, blue eyes laughing over it in mirthfulself-reproach at having used his first name when of course she ought tohave spoken with proper reserve in spite of the violets swaying at herfeet, and called him Mr. Cory.
"I didn't mean to. I'm not dangerous, now that's no lie."
"That, sir, remains to be seen. You did cause me to forget myself." Shewas still silently laughing--from natural good spirits, or fromkindness, or because Ben Cory was the most comical savage under the sun."Surprising me so, Mr. Cory!" That in drawling mimic reproach, as herhands held down the latch of the picket gate, in mimic warfare decliningto open it.
"May I come in then?"
"Oh-h--mmm," she said, her tone a singing. "I'll consider it, I suppose.I suppose it would be cold and unkind if I obliged you to stand outthere in the street. Though perhaps you ought to, as a punishment forsurpri-ising me so."
"I'm most sorry for that."
"Are you now? Why, Mr. Cory, if I thought so I might decide you were apoor thing of no enterprise, and so away into the house closing thedoor, and you might sit out here lorn and lonely enough until thelamplighter cometh in the evening." She blinked both eyes. "Or I couldsend Charity to you, sir? With another picture maybe, so to keep youcompany?" She glanced down at her hands.
Out of breath in an April gust of wisdom, Ben lifted their unresistingwarmth from the latch, opened it, found himself inside the garden andclosing the gate without commotion. She had drawn away from him,laughter fallen from her like a ravished shield. Not too far away,grave, with veiled downward-looking eyes, the hands he had brieflytouched holding each other as if for safety between her breasts. Bencould neither move nor speak unless she did so. "Would you like to comelook at the daffodils? They were timid, Mr. Cory. They would not bloomin March, but now I think the sun's a little kinder."
The daffodils, yes, but not yet. Ben stooped to the purple glow andwind-stirred motion at his feet, plucked a single violet perfect infragility and held it near her eyes, so that she must lift thempresently to look at him, frightened with discovery, as young in allways as himself and unsure. He recaptured the memory of a breath ofmusic from the dingy library of John Kenny, and found a glory of pridethat he could bring these words to himself out of some dusty hour thatmust have passed without love, and speak them for her pleasure, and notsound in the least like a fool.
"You violets that first appear, By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year, As if the spring were all your own; What are you when the rose is blown?"
"Ah! What's that?"
"The verse is--oh, if I remember, by Sir Henry Wotton, to his mistressthe Queen of Bohemia. But I did make it mine," said Ben. "I made itmine, to give you today."
"Why--why, Ben!" He saw the tears start to her eyes. A few appeared onher cheeks. He could not touch them; understood how she must turn herface away quickly, for the tears were no pretense at all, and she asmuch startled by them as the boy who loved her--no part assigned to thatsort of tears in the undertakings of mimic reproach and mimic warfare."Is that why you came? To--to say something beautiful I couldn't forget,even though...."
"Even though----?"
She smiled down at dainty shoes that were somehow not very muddy inspite of the spring ground, trying again to be distant and a lady. "Mymother and father, 'deed they'd be much put out to know I was speakingthus alone with you, Mr. Cory.... I meant to say: even though the wordscannot be for me."
"Cannot--why, for you and no other, ever."
"Well, we might----" she glanced at the house, and at him, and at thehouse again, so that Ben grasped what she would never be so brazen as toput in words, namely that the stone seat on the other side of the bed ofdaffodils stood very near the house wall, and that this part of the wallwas blind, without any windows to overlook the seat; that the jonquilswould not tell and the stone would be warm in the sun so much like a sunof June. She sat there with a woman's grace; without a smile, shylytouched the stone beside her. The seat was small, yet she could onlymean that he was to be there, that near to her, breathing her fragranceeven as fantasies of twelve troubled nights had dwelt upon it. "Now tellme, Benjamin, tell me truly the reason that brought you here?"
"Oh, to--to pluck this violet, and look on it, whether it be, as theytell, the flower of modesty."
"Now you laugh at me."
"Never."
"Any scholar may laugh at me, Benjamin. I'm not learned."
"Nor I. But as I remember--well, not the books but what my mother usedto say, maybe I ought to take from this garden a sprig of rosemary, butthere'll be none in the bloom this time of year. Oh, Faith, I'm noscholar at all. My brother is the wise one."
"Ay, faraway Reuben. Monday, you know, was the firs
t and only time I'velaid eyes on him. I thought only his body was there, and he the otherside of the moon--but of course a funeral is a poor time to meetanyone.... Rosemary? Why rosemary? Rosemary's for remembrance."
"That's what my mother used to tell. You see, I may be going away," saidBen, and at the moment quite believed it.
"Going away?" Her face was a new miracle because of nearness.
"You heard what happened to the _Iris_?"
"Oh!" She caught his hand in both her own. "Yes, I heard of course. Youmean--what do you mean, Ben?"
"I ought to be out and earning my way. I spoke of it to Uncle John theother evening. You see"--and he found that he was speaking to her verymuch as he had done in certain dreams before the onset of sleep:reasonably, bravely, easily, finding words without stammering. Thisrealization of a dream was in itself so great a wonder that he couldtake other marvels almost lightly, even the marvel of her thigh againsthis own, her two hands holding his one as if they desired never to letit go. He would sail, he said. He would learn all there was for him toknow of the sea, for it was the mightiest of highways for humanenterprise--and the world, said Ben, is scarce explored. Faith seemedastonished to learn how few were the names of great explorers.... If,said Ben, a shipowner of Boston could build his fortune soundly on thecolonial trade until his resources were great enough so that no minordisaster need shake him, there was no reason why such a man--he was notcompletely sure at this point whether he meant himself or Uncle JohnKenny--why such a man, later on, say when the present war was over,should not fit out a fleet, maybe five or six vessels as fast and goodas _Artemis_ but probably larger, and strike out for those parts of theincredible Pacific where anything might be found.Islands--continents.... Why should Spain and France sit a-straddle ofhalf the known earth? For that matter, what did England herself reallyunderstand of the New World? "Oh," said Faith. "Why, this land of ourown," said Ben--"I say this ought to be the heart and center for theexploration that's still to be done." And Faith watched him, shining,but presently let go his hand and turned her face away.
It dawned on Ben that this vision had been newborn of this moment. Itwas in the blue intensity of her eyes that those five or six vessels asfast and good as _Artemis_ were setting out, breaking out the fullsplendor of white canvas and turning south--across the Line, and thenthe Horn? Or should they rather beat across the South Atlantic and roundda Gama's Cape and so on through the southern reaches of the IndianOcean toward their goal? Well, Shawn--Daniel Shawn would know what waythey ought to go, and would go with them of course. But not just yet;not for a few years; not until.... Born of this moment, and so perhapsall his earlier imaginings of the sea had been no more thanprelude--including those of a great while past, when he had never seenso much as the tame waters of Boston harbor, but his brother (at somemoment of that past so far away that Ben could not now locate it in timeor place) had said: "I'll go with thee to the Spice Islands."
Faith was saying: "I see those things for you. It's very fair andbrave." She was not happy. "I see you will go away."
"Why, I'll come back."
"I don't know," said Faith to the faces of the jonquils. "I don't know,whether they ever do. I am not sure my father ever cometh back, Ben. Heis here and not here."
For that Ben found no answer, but a new wave of courage allowed him torecapture her hand. "I suppose, Faith, it sounds as if I were talkingthe stuff of dreams."
"Brave dreams, but--why to me?"
"I think you made them."
"Oh, Ben, you'll break my heart. I am not--I--never mind, I don't wishto speak of it. But you should not be telling these things to me. Ishould not allow it. When we first met I thought you were only a greenboy. Now I see you're--not, quite, and I...."
His own courage amazing him, Ben said: "And thou, Faith? How old artthou?"
"I am seventeen. But women are much older."
"I have heard that, and don't believe it."
"Oh! Oh! Must I now be angered with you?"
"No," said Ben, still dizzily courageous--"no, you must not. But youmust tell me why you should be suddenly distressed, and--and why Ishouldn't tell you what's in my heart. What is it, Faith?" The courage,he supposed, could hardly last much longer, but he could take some pridein it, this courage faintly like cruelty, that seemed to have swept awayher needless defenses.
"We should not be speaking thus together." As though the dutifulassertion itself had given her confidence, she went on more tranquilly:"Have you ever thought, Benjamin--but, la, why should you?--that the lotof women is none so easy? We must stay at home. In many concerns we maynot even speak. We marry, d'you see, and bear children, and must mindthe house--no matter if those we love are on the far side of the earth,yet we must do that, and keep our own counsel too.... One day, Benjamin,I shall marry a rich man, and I hope"--but as she said it she clutchedhis hand and her eyes filled--"I hope and pray he'll have nothingwhatsoever to do with the old gray sea. Oh, I _will_ not marry a sailor,never! Only think," she said, warming to it and laughing now with somemischief--"he my husband shall be a pillar of the colony, like JudgeSewall, ha?--or even a royal governor, Benjamin, with _such_ a wig!--oh,Ben, Ben, have I hurt thee?"
Helplessly Ben said: "I love thee."
She rose quickly and moved away. He dared not look up until she spokeagain. "I am--sorry.... Marry, yes, and bear children and mind thehouse, and grow old little by little--why, that Magellan of yours, tellme, how long was _he_ gone when he made the circuit of the world? Ishall be old and gray when you--come back. Oh yes yes, an old gray damewith wrinkled cheeks and shaking hands, and belike I'll say, 'Why,grandchildren, I knew him, the great Benjamin Cory----'"
"Don't!" said Ben, and knew her hands were on his shoulders.
One of them curled under his chin to lift his face. "There!" shesaid--"do you see? You see what a naughty heartless old woman I amalready? But promise me, Ben--promise me you _will_ come back."
Ben knew he could have stood up then and kissed her--if someone had notpassed by in the street. Faith herself seemed not displeased by thatintrusion of alien noise, only took her hands away and stood backsmiling at him, the moment irretrievable. "I will come back."
"Ben, I wish I had known you'd be here today. We have a guest arrivingsoon--I must dress, and aid Mama with a few things, and I cannot inviteyou to stay. I wish I might, but you understand--not my place to do so,and I dare say Mama would be upset."
"Of course."
"But you will come again--that is, if you wish to," she said, andlaughed herself at the high absurdity of the notion that a time couldever come when he would not wish to see her.
"Of course--whenever I may, Faith."
"I do wish you might stay this evening, but--well, 'tis a----" shesighed in some private trouble or exasperation, moving her handsvaguely--"one of those occasions."
Dimly frightened and not intending his own words, Ben asked: "Someoneimportant?"
Faith made a wry face. "_He_ would think so." Her hands sketched a wigon her head, and she strutted a little in mimicry of self-importance. "Aman of substance, la. A little wintry in years to be sure. A merchant,a pillar of the church, and a--widower."
"I see...."
"Take care," she said with what might be a show of real anger, "that youdo not see too much. He is a good man--I am sorry I was so naughty andforward as to make light of him. Good day, Mr. Cory!" Then in alightning change at sight of his stricken face, Faith hurried to him andframed his face in her hands and whispered: "Did I not make you promiseto come back? Oh, make your voyages--if you must. Make them for me, Ben,and forgive my cruelty!"
"You----"
Lightly and quickly, Faith kissed his lips. "Queer little scar," shesaid, and touched it with a finger tip, breathing hard. "Tell me of itsome time. Why, I--Benjamin Cory, I would wait for you a thousandyears." And she ran away across the garden, vanished utterly, in someplace where Ben supposed there would be a door to safety.
He passed through the gate in a golden haze. Molly wa
s restless. Shemeant no disrespect, but sometimes found it humorous to fidget and danceponderously at the moment he was lifting his foot for the stirrup. Shedid so now, perhaps in comment at the obvious remoteness of Ben's mortalmind. It had the effect of drawing him back to the present world, a fewmild expletives quivering on the edge of utterance, when the brown girlClarissa, returning from some bit of marketing with a parcel under herarm, observed his difficulty, set the parcel on the steps and came tohim. "May I hold her for you, sir?"
"Oh, thanks!" Ben smiled without knowing it, and mounted easily as shecompetently held the bridle and stroked Molly's friendly repentant nose.He was in the saddle, but her hand remained there a moment longer, andher look held him, a look profounder than a touch, demanding nothing,declaring nothing except some kind of understanding which (until hethought about it later) seemed to Ben quite natural. As if they, the twoof them alone, understood and recognized certain things that concernedno one else, that no one else had ever guessed.
Clarissa spoke also, quietly, looking up at him in the sun with nosmile: "Good fortune, wherever you go."
"And to you," said Ben--involuntarily, in a way, or because no otherwords could possibly have been spoken. She turned aside to take up herparcel, and Ben rode home--across Boston Neck, past the waters ofGallows Bay, the marshes and the quicksands.
* * * * *
In the nights that followed Ben's return from Boston with a glowingdreambound face, April became May, but Reuben did not slip outdoorswhile the house was slumbering to walk in the dark woods. He had done sosometimes last year and the year before--usually on summer nights oflight airs and starshine when beauty like something dangerous commandedhim to approach, even though it be madness or immolation, because toretreat was a sure kind of dying. The summery warmth was continuing; thenights following Ben's return were as soft and full of sorcery as anythat had ever called outside his window, but Reuben did not go. Acertain new trouble had come on him, and part of it was a simple andshameful physical fear, like that of the boy who watched the carefuladvance of a wolf.
Shawn--that devil Shawn.
To Reuben, on the morning after Jan Dyckman's death, the office at thewarehouse had stunk of guilt from the moment Shawn strode into it. Hecould rule that out as a morbid fancy for which Mr. Welland might havechided him; he could damn himself half-heartedly for owning a suspiciousnature; nevertheless one fact remained clear to him (and apparently tonobody else): the death of Jan Dyckman was simply too convenient for Mr.Shawn, and Shawn was a man driven by a demon of ambition. Never mindwhether the ambition itself was good or bad: whatever it was, Reubenfelt, it crowded to fullness that part of the man's nature which in mosthuman beings held the capacity for love, kindness, and compromise withthe needs of other lives.
And now, Reuben knew, he would find no calm out there in the calling,sweet-breathing night if he must imagine that devil Shawn behind everytree, and fear the moonlight itself because it would illuminate hisbody for--what? A knife-throw? A lethal rush?
Once Reuben had supposed that everyone possessed something like his ownelectric awareness of the emotional state of others. In school atDeerfield he used to foresee disaster whenever the teacher was about tobreak into rage at Johnny Hoyt or Tom Hawks or some other favorite butt;Reuben had never been wrong, wincing in sympathy for five or ten minutesbefore the ruler slammed on a palm or the birch was lifted in ceremonyfrom the wall. At fifteen he still found it difficult to credit that fewactually did possess that awareness. The thing itself, he guessed, wasmerely a sharp observation for tiny shifts of expression or inflectionsof the voice.... Shawn had reeked of guilt--but more. The large blueeyes had met Reuben's once above the glittering coin; and hadunderstood.
Unable to suggest anything in the realm of proof, Reuben quailed atthought of speaking out. On Sunday, briefly alone with Uncle John, hedid attempt it, and fumbled it; the old man was shocked, confused, alittle angry and apparently not in a mood to listen; Reuben in miserycancelled his own words. After that, with pain but doggedly, Reubenconsidered the possibility that he was suffering from green viciousjealousy because Ben so plainly admired the big Irishman. But the onefact that needed no proof, the fact of the convenience of Jan Dyckman'sdeath for a man who wished to be mate of _Artemis_, remained like a coldlump of indigestion, inescapable and sour.... That devil Shawn would nothave used the knife himself. That would be Judas Marsh. It could beone-eyed Marsh behind the peaceful dark trees of John Kenny's orchard.
When Reuben could sleep at all, Shawn invaded sickly dreams, hisfeatures rather changed, sometimes carrying a flintlock, but alwaysrubbing the brilliant coin, sardonically ready to tell Reuben somethingor other. His words (usually) were no more than "_Floreat_ Rex"--but theIrishman's true meaning appeared to be that the house was afire, or thatsomebody, somewhere, was being flogged, and Reuben too much a womanishcoward to do anything about it. "_Floreat Rex_," said Shawn, meaningalso of course: "I think I'll cut that off--you can't plant anythingwith it." Three times Reuben woke in a sweat from such a snarling dream,the third and worst time being on the Saturday night after Ben's returnfrom his hour with Faith in the garden--of which he told Reuben with shyself-deprecating astonishment, a need to speak, a need to marvel aloudthat anyone could be as fortunate as himself.
On Monday night Reuben dreamed that he was (as he truly was) lying inhis bed in this familiar lovely room, but frozen to immobility, thehouse as silent as though everyone had died and no wind would ever againrattle a shutter or chuckle outside in the expanding leaves. One sound,however, could be felt--leisured footsteps on the stairs. Reuben's eyeswere glued shut; he knew that, knew also that the stairs were dark, thenight-light somehow blown out; but with another kind of vision he couldwatch the man Shawn coming up-black patch over left eye, bright farthingin the busy fingers of the left hand, flintlock in the right. If Reubencould have spoken, as he tried to do, he would have said: "I killed awolf." He could not. He knew that if he did, the man would merely lifthim with gouging fingers under the cheekbones and toss him aside,because it was not for Reuben, or rather not only for Reuben, that hewas gliding up the stairway. A halting then, a steady, purposefulraising of the flintlock until Reuben must stare down into the smallblack eye of the muzzle and understand that it was all over. Thenwaking, swift cool wave of understanding how once more the thing was adream.
It had been much like that not so many years ago, when the dreams wereof Hell.
The moon was not shining, but the sky was a field of a millionuntroubled lights. As Reuben got up and stretched a cramp out of hisarms--his body must have been locked like iron in the dream--he couldmake out something of his brother's face, enough to sense thetranquillity of Ben's healthy sleep, and envy it.
Ben's smooth forehead was turned away; his hand, firm and large, curledchildishly under his rounded chin. Ben's eyelashes were long as agirl's, darker than his brows and curling upward at the tips, darkerthan the thickening down on his lip that he must now shave every otherday. Reuben sat quiet, staring in the dark, until the dim pattern of hisbrother's face was set free from natural bounds, became incomprehensiblyvast, all else a background, then dizzyingly small and far away,unreachable as an image in the bottom of a well.
_What are you? What am I?_
What is fear?
What is happiness?--well, that arrives unsought, if at all: to seek it,I know, is to stumble in a quicksand; to wait wearily hoping for it issimply one tedious way of dying.
What if nothing is real at all except the present moment?
Why, if so, then eternity is only a word. As I look on him now, I lookon him forever. But there's deception here, for we do move and change:eternity is a word.
If the present alone is real, then do we ourselves create it from momentto moment? What is memory? I remember looking over hemlocks to the NorthStar, and Ben looked there too, and I have no way of knowing, ever, whathe saw. I remember a day of summer----
Mid-July, for the hay was ripe then, and Reuben
and his mother werereturning from carrying a noon meal and a jug of beer to the outerfields. Other men beside Father were there, and Ben too, and some otherolder children and women to help with the raking, but Reuben at sevenyears old was no use with a rake. He had been allowed to carry the beer,sipping one mouthful and no more on the way. This was the homewardjourney, and she in a smiling mood, tanned cheeks flushed, dark eyesfull of mischief.
She sat in the long grass by the palisade gate, sweeping her skirt aboutto cover her feet in one graceful glide of her arm, lightly as any younggirl----
(And so she was of course. Always young. Never to be old.)
"Sit by me, Puppy." No one else was about: only the men in the fieldsnow toylike with distance, a flock of cloud-sheep radiant in the lowersky, a bumblebee lighting with clumsy abruptness on Reuben's knee. "Ah,don't stir! He won't sting thee. See!--yellow packets on his legs, he'sbeen a-gathering. Tell me where he's been and what did he see?" (Warmthof a laughing face expecting nonsense.)
"Why, Mother, he went away over England, away over France, even way awayover Boston, and he went awa-a-ay over the places in Ben's Hakluyt bookwhere the Spice Islands are, and there was a king with ten thousandcourtiers and he stung them. Every one."
"Now why? Did they do wrong?"
"They stole the king's beer."
"What, all ten thousand of 'em?"
"Every-each of the ten thousand."
"Now, love, what a selfish old pig the king must've been, for if therewas beer enough for all ten thousand, I vow that was more than he'd everdrink alone, la?"
"Phoo, he was a big king."
"Ah, I see.... And was there a queen of the Spice Islands?"
"There was, and she did try to prevent them stealing the beer, but onewould be tying spoons to her apron the while the rest was after it, shecould no-way catch 'em."
"Wicked things!... Was she beautiful?"
"Ay, but not like you."
"Reuben, thou'lt have me weeping."
"Why, Mother? What for?"
"I don't know, Puppy. They say women must weep sometimes, if onlybecause--I don't know.... Don't ever leave me."
* * * * *
On the same Monday night Ben Cory dreamed:
Faith arrived in the coach to call politely on those who lived in thestockade, and Ben was embarrassed for them, because they allowed herblue skirt to become draggled in the mud as she stepped from the coachat the stockade gate. She was not annoyed, but walked in grace to theinner citadel under the red parasol that Clarissa held unopened aboveher head. Ben shook hands with her pleasantly, and climbed with the girlnamed Clarity up the long spiral ladder to the top of the citadel."Deerfield hath no citadel," said Clarity, Ben good-naturedly agreeing.From this eyrie they could watch the country beyond the stockade, whilein the inner rooms far below, Faith and some friend of Uncle John's wereenjoying cakes and coffee and Madeira. "Like crosstrees," said Clarity,Ben good-naturedly agreeing, and she placed her brown sweet sunlit handsat the edge of their perch and pulled at it to make it set up anagreeable swaying, entertaining as a swing in a garden.
The forest beyond the stockade was alive with gray dogs.
"He is compassed about," Ben said, knowing Clarity shared his anxiety."He may be obliged to sell a tetradrachm of the time of Dyckman."Clarity nodded, moving their crow's-nest back and forth with her littlebrown hands, so that he could see her body arch and sway, arch and sway,bending and straightening as the wind blew her hair back to him and hidher face from time to time--still he could look down and see Faithwalking out through the stockade walls into the woods. The parasol wasthe only thing the gray dogs were likely to desire, and Clarity had thatnow, under her arm; therefore the dogs were not likely to attack Faith,but Ben nevertheless felt a certain gloom, because she was too far away,too far down for him to shout a warning. No real danger of course. Hesaid to Clarity: "Mind that thing, Mistress Coronal--I must be going."
* * * * *
"Rest, John! All evening you was like a cat on a hot stove, la, and allSunday too. Can't you sleep? Can't I help you sleep?"
"I'd have been lost long ago but for your kindness, Kate."
"Oh, now! Something hot to drink? I could get it easy."
"I had enough in the evening, or too much. Besides, dear, I'm notcertain the boys are asleep. Heard some stirring. One of them openingthe window or the like. I don't think Ru's been sleeping well--red-eyedin the morning, and d'you know I can't ask? Don't know how."
"Don't fret so--'tis only their time of life. Both brave boys, and willbe grand men. In a few years you'll have no cause for anything but pridein 'em, the both of 'em."
"That's true.... Kate, it would not much amaze me if the boys--Reubenat least--were quite aware that sometimes I come up here to thy room atnight. They'd never speak, never show the knowledge by so much as alook; I think they'd never even discuss it with each other alone; andneither would have any unkind thought about it."
"Oh.... All the same----"
"I know. Best to remain discreet. Still, if we were wed----"
"It's not fitting, John. The gossip that's gone on about us, all theseyears, it's become a--a--what's the word I want?"
"A commonplace?"
"Yes, of course--that, with a pox. But don't you see?--if we was to wednow there'd be talk of another kind, and then--then I must be MadamKenny and bear it like a lady, which I am _not_, John, and cannot be.Oh, let be as it is! I'd be most wretched, John--truly.... As you say,the boys would never speak of it. I know them too. I love them too,John."
"Well.... If it were spoken I suppose Ben would be--embarrassed, let ussay, because he's much aware of social opinion. And Reuben--who lookethdown upon social opinion from his own mountaintop like a puzzledangel--Reuben would hold some thought about it which I could neverunderstand, never interpret--Kate, I don't _know_ them!... I can't seemy own youth, Kate. I think of it. A thousand things keep coming back tome now that never did so in my fifties, or sixties--my father's sniff,my Aunt Jessica's passion for setting the furniture exactly parallel tothe walls and washing her hands a hundred times a day--damme, the veryshape of a knot in the ash stick my father used for correcting me, anddidn't I count it a great thing won if I was hit with the plain part ofthe stick and not with the knob! How Ru would have loathed him! I didtoo, but a long time after he was dead I suppose I acquired a certaincomprehension, even gratitude in some matters. Well, those things comeback, but only like little pictures, Kate. I can't _feel_ how it was, tobe a youth of Ben's age. I only know that once I was, and that in aworld nothing like the one they live in, nothing like.... Mr. Wellandstopped by at my office today."
"Mr. Welland!"
"Nay, nothing to do with illness. I now learn, Kate, that our Reubenhath suddenly decided he wishes to study medicine."
"Marry come up!"
"Ye-es. Well, I wish he might have discussed it with me first, but fromwhat Mr. Welland told me, I believe the thought came suddenly, and Isuppose Ru felt unready to speak to me about it, and Mr. Welland beingin town anyway on some other errand--mph, anyway, so it is. Maybe apassing thing--but Welland seemed to think not, and was earnest, nayalmost impassioned in telling me he thought the boy had a true call toit. I like Welland of course--honest man, courteous too, said he wouldbe pleased to take Reuben as apprentice, by whatever arrangement suitedmy own plans for him. Man of learning too--I found we share manyinterests.... Damn the thing, I could have wished better for Reubenthan--oh, pills, syrups, the whining of sick people, exposing himself todangerous ills, but...."
"That's what troubled you today?"
"Uh--well, no. Of course I must have some talk with Reuben about thisin--well, in a day or two...."
"Tell Kate."
"Kate, I have done a thing, the which seemed right to me at the time,and still does, but...."
"Tell Kate."
"_Artemis_ is to sail tomorrow. The Tuesday afternoon, if the weather beright. The sky's clear tonight--
I dare say it will be fair."
"Oh?"
"Ay--Barbados. And Ben does not know it, Kate, and will not know ituntil she is gone."
"Oh, John!"
"I know. Now let me try to tell thee: Ben was most desirous to sail--youknew that--and I--I can't have it, Kate. Not now, and he so young--thehardships, and his study disrupted, all that. A while ago--a week agoSaturday, I think--he spoke to me of this. He had the thought that_Artemis_ might make a quick passage to New York. It was reasonable.He'd given it much thought evidently, and spoke up every inch a man, Iwas obliged to consider it, though I still think my own judgment isbest, and so--so she's for Barbados, and will surely bring enough on herreturn to clear away--certain debts, and put us in good posture for sometime to come.... Well, let it be I'm simply a coward, Kate: I could notface him, and tell him he was not to go--that is, not now, when I--Itell thee, Kate, I can't quite seem to recover from what happened to_Iris_. Not as I used to recover from such misfortune. Why, when _Hera_was lost--oh, I'm getting old. I simply could not bear to see the lightgo out of him, as I knew it would."
"But later, when he's bound to know----"
"Kate--dear--don't you think it may be better for him to meet it as athing already done, no room for discussion?"
"Oh, I don't know, John. He--it's not for me to say."
"But you know I wish to hear whatever you think."
"I--don't know. Some-way, it don't seem...."
"You think he may be angry with me?"
"I never saw Ben angry. Could be, I vow, if he was hurt."
"And you think this may hurt him, too much?"
"I--don't _know_, John. It seemed right to you, and--oh dearie me----"
"Well, there, never mind. It's done. I sha'n't tell him till tomorrow.Nor Reuben of course, seeing I can't burden him with the obligation tokeep a secret from his brother.... I was obliged to cross Ben in oneother particular--maybe it a'n't important. He put in a good word onceor twice for Mr. Shawn, you see, to replace poor Jan. I considered it. Ilike Shawn well enough--I suppose. But then yesterday--ay, Sunday itwas--Reuben said something, to me alone, that gave me pause."
"Reuben did! John, I--did not like that Mr. Shawn."
"You too?"
"I only glimpsed him the once, that evening he came here. I felt acoldness in him. I a'n't wise in the head, John, but my heart knows alittle sometimes. I did feel a coldness."
"Not so far from what Reuben said. We were speaking of Jan's death, andReuben said--blurted it, not his natural way at all, and I could see itcost him pain--Ru said: 'Ha'n't they even questioned him?' I was obligedto ask whom he meant. He said: 'Shawn, that devil Shawn.' He said:'Will they not ask him concerning ends and means? Will they not ask himhow far he would go to secure a vessel so to be another Francis Drake?'Well, I--I chided him, Kate--it shocked me, not only because he lacks aman's years. He apologized and said no more. But then today, it sohappened another man applied--Will Hanson, New Haven man, a good sailorthat Jenks knew from years past. Jenks wished to sign him on. I hadmeant to suggest Mr. Shawn, but I remembered what Reuben said and heldmy peace, and so--so Hanson will be mate when she sails tomorrow.... I'mgetting old--fret and fume over decisions I'd've made a few years agowith a snap of the fingers--and been right too. Usually. Oh, my foot!God damn that bloody thing!"
"Lie still. You know it alway stops hurting if you lie still."
"Ah, you're kind."
"Why, John, you're mine in the sight of God. And you not even able tobelieve!--well, there, I made my peace with that too, long ago, fora'n't it what makes the world go 'round, a'n't I alway said so? Nay,love, never mind how I chatter. Try now if you can't get some sleep."