the rev. needham awoke from his siesta wonderfully refreshed. these benign afternoon snoozes had a peculiar and sometimes quite poignant effect. the minister dimly felt it must have something to do with psychology. for he always awoke feeling so spiritual, so calm and strong. today, of course, there was particularly traceable cause: he had gone to sleep, one must remember, in a miraculously resolute, yes, a truly masterful, mood. did we call it nietzschean? well, perhaps it really was almost that. at any rate, waking was delicious. there was a largeness, a breadth about life which made one want to square one's shoulders, step out proudly. before the dresser mirror, in the act of resuming collar and tie, the rev. needham actually did square his shoulders a little. he even threw out his chest somewhat. oh, it is sweet to be master of one's own destiny!
out on the porch he found his wife, rocking there all by herself and looking a little vacantly off at the shrubs and trees.
"ah, anna," he said; then perched himself in a nonchalant, really an almost rakish manner, on the[pg 200] railing, throwing one leg over the other, and folding his arms. he yawned a little audibly, concluding that function with a kind of masterful, contented smacking of the lips—even whistled a few bars of a gay secular tune.
"did you sleep well, alf?" anna needham spoke calmly, rocked calmly. she still eyed the shrubs and trees in a spirit of almost hypnotized calm.
"i had a magnificent nap," he assured her.
anna rocked more slowly. "alf," she hesitated.
"yes, anna?"
"alf, i wonder if i can be getting old ...?"
"old, anna?" he was really quite shocked at the suggestion.
"yes—i don't know. sometimes...."
"nonsense!"
"i don't know ..." she continued dreamily.
"but why should you ever think such a thing?"
"well, lately there've been times when i've felt so kind of still. i don't know, but i thought—i thought it might be...."
"why, anna ...!" he cried in vaguely frightened tones.
"i don't know, alf." her manner retained its essential dreaminess. "sometimes when i sit alone rocking, i feel so kind of still...."
the minister laughed, then, with even an attempt at something like boisterousness; but it was plain something of his earlier flamboyancy had vanished.[pg 201] abruptly, right in the heyday of his most glorious mood, the shortness of life struck him with uncanny force. life's shortness, and, though he indignantly repudiated the insinuation, its relative futility, after all. where had one come from in the beginning; just what was it one was up to now; and where was it one would go when the breath of life ceased flowing? oh, what a piece of work is man! these were the secret inner workings. with a thrill of genuine horror the minister found himself asking what he knew, as a fact, after all these years of preaching it, about the immortality of the soul. it was terrible, terrible! oh, that he should be afflicted with such doubts! and not ten minutes ago the rev. needham had squared his shoulders and flashed so grand a defiance at his own reflection....
curiously enough, this sudden unpleasant sense of renewed insecurity was augmented, at the moment when it was most acute, by the rippling laughter of his approaching sister-in-law. miss whitcom and her friend were returning from their tête-à-tête in the bower. the laugh, whatever it might mean to the minister, signified that the lady was not, so easily, to be carried off her feet, and that, however thrillingly she might talk about not being a pioneer any longer, no mere travelling man was to capture her without at least a concluding scramble.
barrett o'donnell knew quite well what the laugh signified. but it didn't, for all that, very greatly disturb him. lord, he'd waited twenty years: he[pg 202] could wait twenty more, if necessary. there is not that hot impetuosity in the affection of souls matured which characterizes youth; not that fever, that restless, exquisite rush of heady devotion. still, there is perhaps something in being quite sure your love isn't misplaced. yes, in a way, to be sure may be even better than to possess.
the return of miss whitcom and mr. o'donnell from one direction fell simultaneously with the return of louise and lynndal barry from another. the porch became a very lively place, all at once, where a few moments before it had been so quiet, with only the minister's wife there, rocking.... louise was greatly relieved that it should be so. to have returned to a silent and deserted house after what had passed between herself and lynndal on the beach must have proved next to unbearable. as it was, the frantic difficulty of the situation would be lightened, if only temporarily.
marjory pounced at once upon the westerner, turning from her ancient suitor with a careless alacrity which seemed saying: "after all, i am free, quite superbly free!" and o'donnell muttered an "ah!" scarce audibly; and what he meant by it was this: "i know you'll come back to me. you always have and you always will. we are not quite free, either of us, in one sense of the word." one glorious, indomitable sense of the word.
marjory wanted to know more about the dam in arizona, and especially she wanted to get at the[pg 203] other side of this tragic love affair—this bit of high tragedy in humble setting. in art, she thought, tragedy has a way of being generally treated nobly and loftily; but in life, somehow, it often seems almost absurd. yes, first it was the dam. but she did not really care two straws about the dam. she had got beyond all such things as dams in her pilgrimage.
the rev. needham opened up a conversation about the point with o'donnell. but he kept eyeing his daughter, who leaned against the railing of the porch, her hands clasped before her. alfred, despite his calling, was a wretched reader of souls. the look in one's eyes or the line of one's lips meant next to nothing, definitely—if only because these things might mean so bafflingly much.... if you actually shed tears, then he would be reasonably sure you must be unhappy. hearty laughter signified, of course, a state of hilarity. however, the rev. needham's spirit, with milton's, took, really, no middle course. there lay an almost blank chasm between tears and laughter—although, alas, the fact of its being a chasm did not make it any less conducive to prickles in one's suspended heels.
"there's only one thing," o'donnell was observing, "—only one thing i've got against this place."
"what's that?" asked the minister.
"there are so many signs!"
it took the rev. needham just a moment to comprehend what was meant. "you mean the assembly notices?"
[pg 204]
"i suppose that's what they are. if you'll pardon my saying so, it seems sometimes as though there's a sign on every tree. one says you mustn't peel the birch bark, and the next one announces a lecture on such and such a day."
"i'm afraid they have multiplied the last few seasons," admitted the minister. "we don't seem to notice—so used to them, i suppose. there are picnickers, you know—come from other parts—and we have to look out for the natural beauty or it will be all spoiled. as for the lecture announcements," he concluded, "the—the church, you know, has to keep pace, nowadays. yes, it—it has to advertise a little!" he spoke almost glibly, and sighed; but quite brightly, indeed almost chirpily.
miss whitcom caught the confession. and she hopped down at once off mr. barry's fine arizona dam—which diverted water into a huge reservoir, thus keeping off the needham wolf—and administered what might vulgarly be termed a knock-out.
"i should say it does have to advertise! oh, yes, the church must indeed hustle to keep pace! even so, i hear the attendance is dropping off."
"marjory?" began her brother-in-law with unhappy and interrogative vehemence. the low bow, alas, would do no good at all here. this woman was unspeakable. she struck him as almost a monster! not that this was manifest, of course; it was merely the way she struck his invisible soul.
"oh, gracious, alfred, i don't mean your [pg 205]attendance. i'm not referring to your particular church. i speak as a sociologist—a biologist!" she laughed. "yes, i always try to consider these things in the broadest sense. and i don't see why you should look so shocked, for after all i'm only agreeing with you. don't you see i am? the church does have to advertise. has to stir up public controversies for the sake of getting itself discussed—always biologically speaking, alfred. it has to get itself recognized as a social force. that's the word: a social force! it must be a little sensational even, sometimes, to match the growing sensationalism of life. what more natural? an atmosphere of spry colloquialism. yes, the modern church must compete. why not introduce the movies into sunday school—?"
"we haven't yet done any of these things, marjory," declared the rev. needham earnestly, a trifle coolly. he seemed really to insist upon receiving all her shafts personally.
"some churches do though," volunteered o'donnell—and laughed a little nervously.
mrs. needham had been following the conversation, glancing first at one speaker then at another; now she spoke: "marjory, how do you ever manage to keep track of everything that's going on here in america?" it was not the first time since her arrival amongst them that anna's sister had amazed her with a grasp of home affairs—often with flashes of vision which had been closed to her before.
"oh," replied marjory with pleasant lightness, "but[pg 206] you see such demonstrations as these exude an influence—it's a little like the wireless. one feels their thrill all around the earth."
"besides," interposed o'donnell quite seriously, "you know tahulamaji's awfully advanced."
"is it?" asked mrs. needham guilelessly, turning towards him.
"oh, tremendously," he assured her. "as i make it out queen tess was one of the most advanced women of her time. i tell you, things move in tahulamaji!"
mrs. needham had not hitherto felt, as she indefinitely put it to herself, very well acquainted with this travelling man friend of her sister's. suddenly she found herself holding the centre of the stage with him. it amounted to a little thrill.
"i suppose, after all, things aren't so different there—conditions, should i say?"
"well," hedged o'donnell, beginning to perceive that he had entered somewhat dangerous waters. he glanced at miss whitcom, who merely shrugged her shoulders, which seemed equivalent to an assurance that, having involved himself unnecessarily in her behalf, he might just flounder along, so far as she was concerned, until kingdom come.
"maybe," suggested the minister's wife with a dart of genuine brilliance, "the churches do all those things in tahulamaji!" would it not seem to explain marjory's being so uncannily well informed?
the rev. needham inwardly fidgeted. he felt he[pg 207] ought to be in the forefront of the discussion, defending his cloth. but suddenly he seemed, within, sadly and impotently, to have nothing to say. there were times when he felt he didn't possess a single honest prejudice any more, or hold one single irrefragable opinion. what a fortunate thing for the soul is its kind bulwark of flesh!
anna's suggestion at length stirred miss whitcom, however. "oh, no," she said quietly, "they don't."
"still," o'donnell objected, "you told me the queen was incorrigibly modern, and you said she adored the movies."
"oh, we're modern," replied marjory with an ungodly smirk. "yes, we're modern enough in tahulamaji. i may say we're quite in the van of civilization. we're so modern that we haven't any churches. so how could we advertise?"
"no churches, marjory?" queried her brother-in-law. "but you seem to forget—"
"well, at least nothing you'd call a church, i'm sure, alfred—outside of what the foreigners have imported, that is. a few little rude native altars.... that's all. you know, 'when two or three are gathered together'.... it's—well, i've sometimes felt it's the spirit that counts in tahulamaji, when it comes to matters of religion. everything's very, very simple. we really haven't time to do it the grand way, even if we knew how."
they hadn't time for church in tahulamaji! the awful question which now wracked the soul of the[pg 208] minister was: if they hadn't time for church, what had they time for? a dimly terrifying curiosity assailed him. the rev. needham had read vague things about the people of the tropics. and a flush overspread his lined, worried face.
yes, marjory was an odd sheep, if not a black one. perhaps she could hardly be called a black one, though there were certainly times when the rev. needham saw her as through smoked glasses. anyway, an odd sheep she certainly was. she did not seem to belong in the herd at all—let alone the family! the rest were all quiet, sensible, orthodox. but about everything marjory said or did there was something unorthodox, something wickedly theatrical. what a past she had had! just think of it! just think, for instance, of spending five whole years of one's life in a place like tahulamaji! well, the ways of god were unsearchable. so, it seemed, were the ways of his satanic opponent. the reason she seemed different from themselves must be, fundamentally, that she had had a past. but why had she had a past? yes, the minister's speculations always must terminate with the knottiest question raised and unanswered. it seemed a part of his destiny.
and meanwhile, there stood louise and lynndal, not six feet apart, yet never meeting each other's look; never speaking. how unpremeditated and tragic! he had come all the way from arizona, and now they had nothing to say to each other. louise, leaning wretchedly against the railing, seemed, just[pg 209] now, able to realize nothing clearly. the episode on the beach had confused her. she felt herself baffled.
as for barry's state of mind, that, also, was considerably cloudy. it had happened—the inconceivable, the impossible—and it was now over. yet was it really over? in just a swift moment like this had all his dreams been broken? it seemed incredible: he could not believe it. he tried to reassure himself, endeavoured to keep hope alight. something wise and still, deep in his heart, counseled patience. it might be she was only confused: it seemed strange to her, having suddenly a reality like this in place of her dreams. louise was a dreamer—he knew that. and what might be going on inside her wayward little head, who could guess? so far barry had only distinguished himself as a wizard of the burning sands. he was a man who could make deserts bloom like the rose. yet who could say but perhaps he knew a little, too, about the subtler bloom of a woman's heart? patience, he argued within himself. it might be she was only puzzled, and that she still loved him in spite of the thing that had happened. he would be patient a little while. if it turned out at last that there was no hope, why, then he would go back to the desert again. that was all.
