Of Time and the River (45 page)

“Not that I’m blamin’ you, Mr. Gant. . . . I reckon we were both at fault . . . we were both to blame . . . if I had it to do all over I know I could do better . . . but I was so young and ignorant when I met you, Mr. Gant . . . knew nothing of the world . . . there was always something strange-like about you that I didn’t understand.”

Then, as he said nothing, but lay still and passive, looking at the ceiling, she said quickly, drying her eyes and speaking with a brisk and instant cheerfulness, the undaunted optimism of her ever- hopeful nature:

“Well, now, Mr. Gant, that’s all over, and the best thing we can do is to forget about it. . . . We’ve both made our mistakes—we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t—but now we’ve got to profit by experience—the worst of all this trouble is all over—you’ve got to think of getting well now, that’s the only thing you’ve got to do, sir,” she said pursing her lips and winking briskly at him— “just set your mind on getting well—that’s all you’ve got to do now, Mr. Gant—and the battle is half won. For half our ills and troubles are all imagination,” she said sententiously, “and if you’ll just make up your mind now that you’re going to get well— why, sir, you’ll do it,” and she looked at him with a brisk nod. “And we’ve both got years before us, Mr. Gant—for all we know, the best years of our life are still ahead of us—so we’ll both go on and profit by the mistakes of the past and make the most of what time’s left,” she said. “That’s just exactly what we’ll do!”

And quietly, kindly, without moving, and with the impassive and limitless regret of a man who knows that there is no return, he answered:

“Yes, Eliza. That is what we’ll do.”

“And now,” she went on coaxingly, “why don’t you go on back to sleep now, Mr. Gant? There’s nothin’ like sleep to restore a man to health—as the feller says, it’s Nature’s sovereign remedy, worth all the doctors and all the medicine on earth,” she winked at him, and then concluded on a note of cheerful finality; “so you go on and get some sleep now, and tomorrow you will feel like a new man.”

And again he shook his head in an almost imperceptible gesture of negation:

“No,” he said, “not now. Can’t sleep.”

He was silent again, and presently, his breath coming somewhat hoarse and laboured, he cleared his throat, and put one hand up to his throat, as if to relieve himself of some impediment.

Eliza looked at him with troubled eyes and said:

“What’s the matter, Mr. Gant? There’s nothing hurtin’ you?”

“No,” he said. “Just something in my throat. Could I have some water?”

“Why, yes, sir! That’s the very thing!” She got up hastily, and looking about in a somewhat confused manner, saw behind her a pitcher of water and a glass upon his old walnut bureau, and saying “This very minute, sir!” started across the room.

And at the same moment, Gant was aware that someone had entered the house, was coming towards him through the hall, would soon be with him. Turning his head towards the door he was conscious of something approaching with the speed of light, the instancy of thought, and at that moment he was filled with a sense of inexpressible joy, a feeling of triumph and security he had never known. Something immensely bright and beautiful was converging in a flare of light, and at that instant, the whole room blurred around him, his sight was fixed upon that focal image in the door, and suddenly the child was standing there and looking towards him.

And even as he started from his pillows, and tried to call his wife he felt something thick and heavy in his throat that would not let him speak. He tried to call to her again but no sound came, then something wet and warm began to flow out of his mouth and nostrils, he lifted his hands up to his throat, the warm wet blood came pouring out across his fingers; he saw it and felt joy.

For now the child—or someone in the house was speaking, calling to him; he heard great footsteps, soft but thunderous, imminent, yet immensely far, a voice well known, never heard before. He called to it, and then it seemed to answer him; he called to it with faith and joy to give him rescue, strength, and life, and it answered him and told him that all the error, old age, pain and grief of life were nothing but an evil dream; that he who had been lost was found again, that his youth would be restored to him and that he would never die, and that he would find again the path he had not taken long ago in a dark wood.

And the child still smiled at him from the dark door; the great steps, soft and powerful, came ever closer, and as the instant imminent approach of that last meeting came intolerably near, he cried out through the lake of jetting blood, “Here, Father, here!” and heard a strong voice answer him, “My son!”

At that instant he was torn by a rending cough, something was wrenched loose in him, the death-gasp rattled through his blood, and a mass of greenish matter foamed out through his lips. Then the world was blotted out, a blind black fog swam up and closed above his head, someone seized him, he was held, supported in two arms, he heard someone’s voice saying in a low tone of terror and of pity, “Mr. Gant! Mr. Gant! Oh, poor man, poor man! He’s gone!” And his brain faded into night. Even before she lowered him back upon the pillows, she knew that he was dead.

Eliza’s sharp scream brought three of her children—Daisy, Steve, and Luke, and the nurse, Bessie Gant, who was the wife of Gant’s nephew Ollie—running from the kitchen. At the same moment Helen, who had taken an hour’s sleep—her first in two days—in the little hall-bedroom off the porch, was wakened by her mother’s cry, the sound of a screen-door slammed, and the sound of footsteps running past her window on the porch. Then, for several minutes she had no consciousness of what she did, and later she could not remember it. Her actions were those of a person driven by a desperate force, who acts from blind intuition, not from reason. Instantly, the moment that she heard her mother scream, the slam of the screen-door, and the running feet, she knew what had happened, and from that moment she knew only one frenzied desire; somehow to get to her father before he died.

The breath caught hoarse and sharp in her throat in a kind of nervous sob, it seemed that her heart had stopped beating and that her whole life-force was paralyzed; but she was out of her bed with a movement that left the old springs rattling, and she came across the back-porch with a kind of tornado-like speed that just came instantly from nowhere: in a moment she was standing in the open door with the sudden bolted look of a person who had been shot through the heart, staring at the silent group of people, and at the figure on the bed, with a dull strained stare of disbelief and horror.

All the time, although she was not conscious of it, her breath kept coming in a kind of hoarse short sob, her large big-boned face had an almost animal look of anguish and surprise, her mouth was partly open, her large chin hung down, and at this moment, as they turned towards her she began to moan, “Oh-h, oh-h, oh-h, oh-h!” in the same unconscious way, like a person who has received a heavy blow in the pit of the stomach. Then her mouth gaped open, a hoarse and ugly cry was torn from her throat—a cry not of grief but loss—and she rushed forward like a mad woman. They tried to stop her, to restrain her, she flung them away as if they had been rag dolls and hurled herself down across the body on the bed, raving like a maniac.

“Oh, Papa, Papa. . . . Why didn’t they tell me? . . . Why didn’t they let me know? . . . Why didn’t they call me? . . . Oh, Papa, Papa, Papa! . . . dead, dead, dead . . . and they didn’t tell me . . . they didn’t let me know . . . they let you die . . . and I wasn’t here! . . . I wasn’t here!”—and she wept harshly, horribly, bitterly, rocking back and forth like a mad woman, with a dead man in her arms. She kept moaning, “. . . They didn’t tell me . . . they let you die without me . . . I wasn’t here . . . I wasn’t here . . .”

And even when they lifted her up from the bed, detached her arms from the body they had held in such a desperate hug, she still kept moaning in a demented manner, as if talking to the corpse, and oblivious of the presence of these living people:

“They never told me . . . they never told me. . . . They let you die here all by yourself . . . and I wasn’t here . . . I wasn’t here.”

All of the women, except Bessie Gant, had now begun to weep hysterically, more from shock, exhaustion, and the nervous strain than from grief, and now Bessie Gant’s voice could be heard speaking to them sharply, coldly, peremptorily, as she tried to bring back order and calmness to the distracted scene:

“Now, you get out of here—all of you! . . . There’s nothing more any of you can do—I’ll take care of all the rest of it! . . . Get out, now . . . I can’t have you in the room while there’s work to do. . . . Helen, go on back to bed and get some sleep. . . . You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“They never told me! . . . They never told me,” she turned and stared stupidly at Bessie Gant with dull glazed eyes. “Can’t you do something? . . . Where’s MacGuire? Has anyone called him yet?”

“No,” said the nurse sharply and angrily, “and no one’s going to. You’re not going to get that man out of bed at this hour of the night when there’s nothing to be done. . . . Get out of here, now, all of you,” she began to push and herd them towards the door. “I can’t be bothered with you. . . . Go somewhere—anywhere—get drunk—only don’t come back in here.”

The whole house had come to life; in the excitement, shock, and exhaustion of their nerves the dead man still lying there in such a grotesque and twisted position, was forgotten. One of Eliza’s lodgers, a man named Gilmer, who had been in the house for years, was wakened, went out, and got a gallon of corn whisky; everyone drank a great deal, became, in fact, somewhat intoxicated; when the undertakers came to take Gant away, none of the family was present. No one saw it. They were all in the kitchen seated around Eliza’s battered old kitchen table, with the jug of whisky on the table before them. They drank and talked together all night long until dawn came.

XXXIV

The morning of Gant’s funeral the house was filled with people who had known him and the air was heavy with the sweet, cloying fragrance of the funeral flowers: the odours of lilies, roses, and carnations. His coffin was banked with flowers, but in the centre there was a curious and arresting plainness, a simple wreath of laurel leaves. Attached to the wreath was a small card on which these words were written: “Hugh McGuire.”

And people passing by the coffin paused for a moment and stared at the name with a feeling of unspoken wonder in their hearts. Eliza stood looking at the wreath a moment with hands clasped across her waist, and then turned away, shaking her head rapidly, with a short convulsive pucker of her lips, as she spoke to Helen in a low voice:

“I tell you what—it’s pretty strange when you come to think of it— it gives you a queer feeling—I tell you what, it does.”

And this expressed the emotion that everyone felt when they saw the wreath. For Hugh McGuire had been found dead at his desk at six o’clock that morning, the news had just spread through the town, and now, when people saw the wreath upon Gant’s coffin, there was something in their hearts they could not utter.

Gant lay in the splendid coffin, with his great hands folded quietly on his breast. Later, the boy could not forget his father’s hands. They were the largest, most powerful, and somehow the most shapely hands he had ever seen. And even though his great right hand had been so crippled and stiffened by an attack of inflammatory rheumatism ten years before that he had never regained the full use of it, and since that time could only hold the great wooden mallet that the stone-cutters use in a painful and clumsy half-clasp between the thumb and the big stiffened fingers, his hands had never lost their character of life, strength, and powerful shapeliness.

The hands had given to the interminable protraction of his living death a kind of concrete horror that it otherwise would not have had. For as his powerful gaunt figure waned and wasted under the ravages of the cancer that was consuming him until he had become only the enfeebled shadow of his former self, his gaunt hands, on which there was so little which death could consume, lost none of their former rock-like heaviness, strength and shapely power. Thus, even when the giant figure of the man had become nothing but a spectral remnant of itself, sunk in a sorrow of time, awaiting death, those great, still-living hands of power and strength hung incredibly, horribly, from that spectral form of death to which they were attached.

And for this reason those powerful hands of life evoked, as nothing else could have done, in an instant searing flash of memory and recognition the lost world of his father’s life of manual power, hunger, fury, savage abundance and wild joy, the whole enchanted structure of that lost life of magic he had made for them. Constantly, those great hands of life joined, with an almost grotesque incongruity, to that scarecrow form of wasting death would awake for them, as nothing else on earth could do, all of the sorrowful ghosts of time, the dream-like spell and terror of the years between, the years of phantom death, the horror of unreality, strangeness, disbelief, and memory, that haunted them.

So was it now, even in death, with his father’s hands. In their powerful, gaunt and shapely clasp, as he lay dead in his coffin, there seemed to be held and gathered, somehow, all of his life that could never die—a living image of the essential quality of his whole life with its fury and unrest, desire and hunger, the tremendous sweep and relish of its enormous appetites and the huge endowment of its physical and sensual powers.

Thus, one could suppose that on the face of a dead poet there might remain—how, where or in what way we could not tell, a kind of flame, a light, a glory,—the magic and still living chrysm of his genius. And on the face of the dead conqueror we might still see living, arrogant, and proud with all its dark authorities the frown of power, the inflexible tyranny of stern command, the special infinitude of the invincible will that would not die with life, and that incredibly remains, still dark and living in its scorn and mockery of time.

Then, on the face of an old dead prophet or philosopher there would live and would not die the immortality of proud, lonely thought. We could not say just where that spirit rested. Sometimes it would seem to rest upon the temples of the grand and lonely head. Sometimes we would think it was a kind of darkness in the shadows of the closed and sunken eyes, sometimes the marsh fire of a dark and lambent flame that hovered round the face, that could never be fixed, but that we always knew was there.