Home from the Hill (32 page)

Then he remembered that, oh, Lord, not only had he mistreated Theron, he had offended his father as well. It would have to be patched up with the Captain before it could be promoted with the boy. He would have to crawl. No, no! That would certainly arouse suspicion. The thing to do was bump into the Captain on the street some day soon and bring the matter up just by-the-way. Some apology, of course, he would have to make, but along with it should go a deprecatory, familiar smile, to show what a trifling matter for both of them it had been from the start. Say what a mistake he had made and hint that if Theron still wanted to come calling he would be welcome. She could be counted on to do her part—he would impress that on her; and he had noticed, with an acutely stabbing pang at the time, that she was if anything prettier than she had been before.

Meanwhile days must pass, and who knew how many had passed already, while that steady and inexorable change went on within her, bringing her hourly nearer the visible stage. It could not be helped; to rush matters would be the surest way to arouse suspicions. It would just have to take its time. That would be the only clever way to play it, he told himself.

Five minutes later he was putting on his overcoat and stealing out the front door, going to call on Captain Wade.

Once he was out of doors, all Mr. Halstead's certainties deserted him. He began to compare himself with other men. His heart cried out against the injustice of the world. He had lived so quietly, aspired to so little. And to him had come a fate of the kind classically assigned by prophets and poets both to the proud and the vain and the over-reaching. The truth was just backwards from all that you were taught. The righteous suffered, the wicked prospered. But profound realizations came thick and fast to Mr. Halstead on this walk. He soon learned that he had not reached the depths of knowledge, that there was actually a soporific comfort in sure, easy cynicism of that sort. He passed the houses of fellow citizens, and saw reclining in armchairs under the glow of lamps, men of whom he knew both good and bad, some whose virtue, some whose vice had earned them that snug security, and Mr. Halstead, dizzy and dismayed, plumbed the vast indifference at the heart of things. He was not to be steeled by the sense of ire merited or unmerited. If all the adages were lies, the opposite of them would have been another set of lies. If the meek inherited nothing, neither, necessarily, did they suffer. Jeff Traver, sitting there in his cozy home unbuttoned and unperplexed and ignorant of his blessing in having no daughter, had not come to grief through his goodness, the equal, Mr. Halstead knew, of his own. For Mr. Halstead no voice came out of the whirlwind at the hour of his destiny. The wind that blew on all alike blew softly at his back as he walked down the quiet residential street through an unexceptional November evening.

44

Casualness, he told himself as he rang the doorbell, that was the right note. He must not appear the least bit troubled. He must not seem to be choosing his words or gauging their effect upon his man. Yet he was conscious of a tremor in his lips that would not be stilled, of a puckering in his brows unmistakably denoting worry, and of tears welling momently to his eyes. He would be dealing with a man experienced, keen in the very matter he had to meet him upon. His chance lay in not appearing apologetic or supplicating, he told himself. Yet at the corners of his mouth he felt clots of that sticky white scum that collected there whenever he overexerted or was upset, and he was miserably conscious of bearing upon him a thousand other unmistakable marks of dejection and urgency.

He was shown into the den. It came as a shock, seeing all that hunting paraphernalia, those guns, mounted heads of animals. He was dealing with the kind of man he did not understand; his misgivings doubled. But he had a certain contempt, as well, for that outdoors type: they were not very subtle, not cunning.

Except that in every look and gesture of this particular one there was a quick deliberation that told him he did not run to type. Already he felt on the defensive. He spoke of the weather out of doors and was answered by nods and monosyllables and non-committal, searching looks. He prophesied tomorrow's weather, cursing himself all the while. Never in his life had he had any grace at small-talk; what made him think he should have now, of all times? Better to get right down to business. “My daughter's come home, did you hear?”

The Captain politely feigned interest. He was listening carefully, watching closely.

“Well of course you wouldn't. She just came tonight. But, heh-heh, you know how us fathers are: expect everybody to know all the latest about their offspring,” he said—and shuddered at the full implications of the remark.

“She wasn't happy up there. She'd never been away from home before, you know.” It started out sprightly enough; before he finished the sentence there was a catch in his voice. She had never been away from home before—and the very first time she was … With a start he brought himself around. He cleared his throat. “Yes, she's come back,” he said. “Got homesick and just picked up, middle of the term, irregardless. That was always her way: get a notion—act on it.”

Apparently nothing he could say was free of painful suggestions: he thought now of another impulse she had acted upon: his sight swam.

“I don't think it was only me and her mama she missed,” he said. That was a clever way of bringing it in, he thought. Then, musing further on his words, no, he thought, she hadn't missed him or her mama much up there! Then he thought—surprised at himself, at how weak-willed and lax he was fast becoming—that maybe she had given in to that rascal, whoever, just out of despair at being misunderstood by her papa and loneliness for the boy he had so cruelly separated her from.

But as though he hadn't troubles enough, with all that weighed upon his mind, the Captain gave him no help at all. It was not that he hadn't got that hint; he just wouldn't give any sign.

“I want to apologize to you about that little difference you and I had not long ago,” said Mr. Halstead, conscious that the crafty smile he had so carefully planned to accompany that gambit must look like an ad for false teeth. “I really am sorry. I never was more mistaken in my life than about your Theron. And I—”

“Mistaken,” said the Captain with a dangerous smile, “in thinking he's anything like his father, you mean?”

He was confounded, routed. He had come to use diplomacy, slyly match wits; he had not the strength to respond to his adversary's opening sally. A terrible ennui, a will-lessness overcame him. He wanted to be alone, to cry. His helplessness must have been apparent, must have pled for him even to his opponent, for in a different, kindlier tone, the Captain said, “Well, never mind that. Go on.”

“Well,” he said, rising with difficulty to the effort of speech, “you musn't think I meant …” His mind went blank, his voice trailed away.

“Forget that. Just go on from there,” said the Captain.

“I just wanted to say … that it wasn't only for me and her mama that she was homesick up there, you know.”

“You said that already.”

“Oh, did I? Yes, I did, didn't I?” And, of all things, he giggled.

“Aren't you feeling well?”

“Oh, yes! Fine!”

“Well then, would you mind just saying right out what you came to see me for.”

“Yes. Yes. Well, as one father to another, I'm worried about my Libby.” The inadequacy of that remark almost dazed him. Forcing his mind back to the present scene was like regaining consciousness from a blow. “Maybe your Theron still thinks of her, and I can't stand,” he said, choking, “I can't stand to see her long for anything. I mean, if he still wants to come calling, I'd make him as welcome to my house as a son of my own.”

It all sounded too entreating, too desperate, he knew: suspicious. Well, it had been the best he was up to. Maybe it was better. Maybe the man would be touched by a father's genuine concern for his child. God knew he had not had to feign that. And if Theron did still think of her, and if his father cared that his son should not be denied what he longed for, maybe it would work out after all. But strangely enough, he found he cared less one way or the other than he had thought, less than he ought. He was too tired to care desperately.

Now he watched his man. The Captain turned towards the fireplace and remained that way for what seemed a long time. Then he looked back out of the corners of his eyes. Then he turned full around and his eyes narrowed and a kind of challenge and assurance seemed to pass through him, straightening his back, tightening the sinews of his neck and rippling the knot of muscles at the bend of his jaw. “No thanks,” he said in a hard cold voice. “We're not buying any damaged goods.”

It hardly surprised Mr. Halstead. He had known, really—only his desperate hope had made him hide it from himself—that he was not dealing with a man who forgave an affront easily. He had known, too, had even cautioned himself on this point, that he was dealing with one especially shrewd, widely experienced, in just the matter he had to meet him on. The words fired him for a second—for her sake, not his own—but he subsided. He had to take it. It was one of the risks of the game he had come to play, and it was, or soon would be, the world's words, those or other ugly phrases like it: might as well begin getting used to it now. Any rejoinder he might have made was stifled, anyway, by one crushing thought: this one was especially sharp in such matters, but would not all men be nearly as quick guessing why a beautiful girl should come back home, suddenly, by night, in the middle of the school term? Then in his mind he saw her as she looked when she first made him her admission: frightened, hurt, lonely; and a strange thing happened. All reproaches against her vanished from his heart like a fog suddenly lifting. He no longer felt sorry for himself, for his part in the matter. It shamed him a little to confess it, for he had a sense of abandoning all his moral principles, but never had he loved his daughter as now. In amazement, he examined the strange state of his soul. Who could have guessed that in such suffering could be found strength, almost joy?

Then Mr. Halstead heard, just heard, for it was spoken low, heard the Captain say, “I'm sorry I said that.” He was not really sorry; that was why he said it no louder. This was the man who had put him to ignominy such as no other man ever had, who had forced him to go through a humiliating and painful and awkward course of self-examination—and he had come here on such a mission. This was the man, and that was the daughter who was too good for any son of his.

Mr. Halstead, feeling uplifted and ennobled beyond anything he had ever known, forgave him at once. He hardly had to; he felt no hurt from the words now. Such things could not reach him now. Besides, the purification he had undergone made him more than ever ashamed of the errand upon which he had come. It helped ease his guilt a little to be able to forgive the other man for something. “That's all right,” he said. “I deserve it. She doesn't, but I do. This was my idea. She didn't know I was coming here.”

The Captain nodded. There was silence for a moment. Then he said, “All our children deserve better fathers.” Another silence, during which he looked surprised and a little embarrassed at hearing words of philosophy from himself.

“I'm the one who should apologize to you,” said Mr. Halstead. He looked about the room and heaved a sigh. “Well, that was all I came for,” he said. “I'll be getting home now. She'll wonder,” he looked down, shyly embarrassed by his newfound love, “where I've been all this while.” Yet he found it strangely hard to stir himself. He felt somehow rather more comfortable than not with this man. Was it that he had a connection, distant though it was, with Libby, with her present problem and her previous innocence, that he was the father of the boy who had loved her so differently from that other, in young love, calf-love, childish, harmless, whom she perhaps, but for him, might have loved in return in that innocent way, so irretrievably lost to her now? Could there be comfort in the company of a man of the very sort who had undone his daughter, and of a man he himself had tried to wrong? Or was it just that he was another father? Or was it just that he was somebody, the only person as yet, who knew?

The Captain sat studying his visitor, and his resentment against the man vanished with the growing sense of victory over him. The Captain liked to win, always. Then he was content; he did not need to gloat. Now he found himself rather grateful to Mr. Halstead for his triumph over him. He said, “I'll go up there for you, if you like. I mean, find him. You know what I mean. Show him his duty. That is, seeing she doesn't have any … doesn't have any brother to take her part in a thing like this.”

Obviously he had been going to say
anybody
.

Mr. Halstead raised his hand as though to ward him off. He shook his head, started to say something, could not, shook his head and waved his hand. The Captain shrugged. And still Mr. Halstead sat.

It was the intended victim who put an end to the interview. He got up and handed Mr. Halstead his hat. At once Mr. Halstead grew flustered and apologetic. Just before relinquishing the hat, the Captain deftly corrected the crease.

45

Mr. Halstead walked down the cindered alleyway between the barren flower beds. His elevation of soul had not deserted him, but as he departed from the scene of his apotheosis, his thoughts raced ahead to Libby. Her situation, though it might have made a better man of him, was hopeless now.

He was reaching his hand towards the gate latch when suddenly everything was lighted up. The carriage lamps on the two gateposts had come on. Stunned as well as blinded, he groped for the latch, opened the gate and stumbled through. The lights must have come on through some device tripped by his approach, he thought, one of those electric-eye gadgets, and he lost himself gratefully for a moment in admiration at the ingenuity of it. He turned to watch as he closed the gate, but the lights did not go out, and looking up, his eyes accustomed to the illumination now, as through a long dark corridor he saw the Captain standing in the light on the front porch. He has come out to switch on the light for me, thought Mr. Halstead, amazed and touched, after what I tried to do to him. The strain of emotion, more in the last half hour than in all his life before put together, was touched off by this small act of courtesy on the part of his intended victim and by his own movement at the same moment of setting his face towards home, towards his poor girl. The tears he had so far contrived to blink welled hot and heavy into his eyes. He raised his arm to wipe them on his sleeve, and fumbling, knocked off his hat. When he bent to pick it up the tears flowed and he could see nothing. He groped blindly along the pavement.