Chapter XII THE SECRET OF THE OAK
Next morning Bertha rode down to the village. Later, Durgan heard that she had visited 'Dolphus, taken pains to get him a more comfortable lodging, and left him a basket of sundry nourishing foods. More than this, she had sat and talked with him in a friendly way for quite an hour. When she passed up the hill again, Durgan observed that she appeared calm and contented. She stopped to give him an invitation.
"My sister requires your attendance at supper o'clock this evening—no excuse accepted."
"Why this evening?" he asked.
"For two reasons. First, we are very grateful for your kindness yesterday, and sister wanted to 'make up.' Secondly, she was making your favorite chicken salad. Perhaps you think that is all one reason, but the second part makes your acceptance imperative, as the salad will be already made."
At sundown Durgan surrendered himself to the attractions of the gracious sisters and the delicacies of their table.
When Adam and his wife had been dismissed, and the three were sitting on the darkling verandah, watching the vermilion west, Miss Smith reminded them that she had the bread to "set" for next day. Bertha and Durgan were playing cards. She went through the dining-room to the kitchen at the back of the house. She was not gone long, barely half an hour; the sky had scarcely faded and the lamp but just been lit, when she came back calm and gentle as ever.
Durgan was not calm. He felt his hand tremble as he brought from the shelf a book which Bertha had asked for.
Ten minutes before a contention had arisen between himself and Bertha as to the time of the moon's rising. To satisfy himself he had walked on the soft grass as far as the gable of the house nearest his footpath. Watching a moment in the shadow, he had heard a movement in the wood. As the first moon-rays lit the gloom he saw the figure of a woman standing on the low bough of an old oak and reaching a long arm toward an upper branch. All the oaks here were stunted and easy to climb. That this was Adam's wife he did not doubt, till, when she had lightly jumped down, he discerned that she was returning attended by the dogs.
Durgan went back hastily lest Bertha should follow him. He reported only the rising of the moon. A moment's thought convinced him that he had been invited that evening for the purpose of keeping Bertha from the knowledge of her sister's excursion. No one but Miss Smith could have taken the dogs. He guessed that she had fulfilled some promise to the boy, 'Dolphus—some promise given him on the slip of paper in the bank-note, of putting money where he might seek it. Amazing as the method resorted to was, Durgan felt no doubt that Miss Smith's action was wise and right in her own eyes, but he was convinced that she was putting herself in danger.
He lingered a little while, not knowing what to do. Then he spoke of 'Dolphus, taking occasion to explain the extreme distrust he felt concerning the man and the degraded nature which so many of this class had exhibited.
Both sisters seemed interested, but not greatly.
"Of course, we never thought whether we liked or disliked him," cried Bertha. "That is not the way one thinks of men like that. We knew him to have been unfortunate; and he is certainly very ill."
Miss Smith said, with a kind smile lighting up her face: "I think, Mr. Durgan, you don't mean that even a 'thieving yellow nigger' hasn't an immortal soul. Even if we can't get real religion into his mind, we can show him kindness which must help him to believe in the mercy of God—not" (she added in humble haste) "that I have ever been kind to him, but I guess Birdie tried to be this morning."
Durgan was never far from the thought that the slave-owning race was responsible for the very existence of a people who had been nourished and multiplied in their homes for the sake of gain.
"Not only for the soul he has, but for the diseased body of him, for all that he suffers and for all the injury he does—he and all his class——" Durgan stopped. Both women were looking at him inquiringly. "Before God I take my share of the blame and shame of it. But it is one thing to be guilty, and another to know how to make reparation. Take an illustration from the brood of snakes in the cliff here. In some slight way you are responsible even for their existence, for you ought to have had the parents killed. But you cannot benefit this brood by kindness; you would wrong the world by protecting them. Believe me, I have been reared among these people; I know the good and bad of them; a rattlesnake is less dangerous than a man like this 'Dolphus. While I would defend such fellows as Adam with my life, if need be, I believe that I should do the best thing for the world in killing such creatures as 'Dolphus and Adam's wife. While such as I ought to bear the punishment of their sins and our own in the next world, the best reparation we could make in this world would be to slaughter them."
Bertha had listened, fascinated by his most unusual earnestness of manner. But at the last words she rose hastily and went out with averted face. The tardy moon was now high. They saw her pacing the walk between the tall sides of the garden beds.
Miss Smith watched her a moment with eyes of loving solicitude, then said, "I'm sure you think you're speaking right down truth, Mr. Durgan, but, you see, I'm a Christian, and I b'lieve the Lord Jesus died for 'Dolphus and Eve, and not for rattlers. That makes all the difference."
"And yet it is a fact that, among the men and women for whom He died, there are fires of evil which can only burn themselves out."
"All things are possible with God," said she.
He made no reply. He was always impressed by the spiritual strength of this delicate woman. After a moment's pause it occurred to him to ask simply—
"What is your sister frightened of—I mean at different times? She seems to suffer from fears."
Slowly she raised her faded blue eyes to him with a look of deep sorrow and puzzled inquiry. "I don't know. She won't talk to me about it—Bertha won't."
"But surely——"
"Yes, I ought to know all she thinks, and be able to help her. Perhaps I know there may be something I won't admit to myself. But, Mr. Durgan, I'm real glad if she talks to you, for it's bad for her to be so lonesome. She had a great shock once, Bertha had. If you can make her talk to you, it'll do her good, Mr. Durgan."
Durgan obediently went out, and walked a few minutes with Bertha in the further shadow of the garden.
"Why did you say it?" she asked. "How could you talk of it being good to kill anyone?"
"My child!" he exclaimed, and then, more calmly, "you know well what I meant. We all know perfectly that there is a leprosy of soul as well as of body, for which on this side death we see no cure, of which even God must see that the world would be well rid. We cannot act on our belief; we leave it in His hands."
"Don't say it! Don't even hint at such a thing again!" In a moment she exclaimed, in a voice of tears, "What does God care? Ah me! when I look back and see my childhood—such high hope, such trustful prayer! Who gave that heart of hope but the God of whom you speak? Who taught the little soul the courage to trust and pray? And the hope is dead, the courage crushed, the prayers—may my worst enemy be saved from such answer, if answer there is, to prayer!"
She leaned her head against a tree, sobbing bitterly.
He supposed that 'Dolphus, bringing memories of a previous time, had unnerved her.
"You had a happy childhood." He spoke soothingly, hardly with interrogation.
She looked up fiercely. "You call God a father! It was my father who taught me to pray. He—ah! you cannot think how beautiful he was, how loving, how fond of all beautiful things! He taught me to pray for him. He said that he could not pray for himself—that he had no faith. I knelt by his knee every day, and prayed, as he taught me, for him and for sister and for myself, but most of all for him. Then Hermie became religious—dear, gentle, self-denying sister—and I cannot doubt that she spent half her time in prayer for him because he wasn't converted."
"And he died?" asked Durgan.
"Yes; he died." It seemed to him that she shuddered.
"Had you ever anything to do with people who believe that the dead can return to speak to us, or appear to us?"
She raised her head and looked at him with interest.
"I once knew a man," continued Durgan, "who believed in such things, who saw such visions."
"Do you mean the man called Charlton Beardsley?"
Durgan was much surprised by hearing the name of his wife's protégé from such a source. "I should not have supposed that you had ever even heard his name. When he came to this country you must have been at school."
"I had just left school. Tell me what he was like. Was he bad or good?"
"I thought him simple, and much mistaken."
"Was he a wicked man?"
"I did not think him so then; I have not seen him since."
"He lives with Mrs. Durgan now, and is a great invalid. Surely you must know if he is a wicked man?"
"Was it the Blounts who told you about him?"
"Yes—Mr. Blount mentioned it before you came"—he thought her words came with hesitation—"but I have wanted to ask you. He was called a mesmerist, too—do you believe that one man's will could possess another person, and make that person do—well, any wicked thing?"
"There was some talk about what was called 'mesmerism' among Beardsley's followers. He had nothing to do with it, I think. I do not believe in one man controlling another to the extent you speak of. If it can happen, it is so rare as not to be worth thought."
She sat silently thinking.
And he was egotistic enough to suppose that the unkindness of mentioning his wife might now occur to her! But when she spoke again he saw that she was only absorbed in her own thoughts.
"I suppose you are right." She sighed.
He said, "I am surprised to find your former life and mine have ever touched so nearly as that we should have taken interest in the same man. He was not a public medium—only known to a very few people. I spoke of his seeing ghosts only because I wanted an opportunity to ask you if you were frightened of ghosts."
"Oh, no; I am not. I have been better taught than that. Why should you ask?"
"I see I should be ashamed of asking such a question."
"Ah! I understand. I talk so wildly at times, I have been so foolishly, childishly talkative, that you think me capable of any folly. You cannot despise me as I despise myself; but—oh, Mr. Durgan—at times I am very unhappy. If I were not terribly afraid to die, my greatest fear would sometimes be that I should live another day. It is not melodrama; it is not hysterics; it is the plain, sober truth; but I am sorry that I have let you know it."
Then, saying good-night, she added, "I have the best sister in the world. I want to live bravely and be happy for her sake; and you can best help me by forgetting what I have said and done. I had the best father in the world: by the memory of your lost daughter, help me to be worthy of him."