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The Doctor: A Tale Of The Rockies, a novel by Ralph Connor |
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Chapter 14. Whosoever Looketh Upon A Woman |
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_ CHAPTER XIV. WHOSOEVER LOOKETH UPON A WOMAN The Journalistic World has its own diversity of mountain and plain, and its own variety of inhabitants. There are its mountain ranges and upland regions of clear skies and pure airs, where are wide outlooks and horizons whose dim lines fade beyond the reach of clear vision. Amid these mountain ranges and upon these uplands dwell men among the immortals to whom has come the "vision splendid" and whose are the voices that in the crisis of a man or of a nation give forth the call that turns the face upward to life eternal and divine. To these men such words as Duty, Honour, Patriotism, Purity, stand for things of intrinsic value worth a man's while to seek and, having found, to die for. Level plains there are, too, where harvests are sown and reaped. But there these same words often become mere implements of cultivation, tools for mechanical industries or currency for the conduct of business. Here dwell the practical men of affairs, as they love to call themselves, for whom has faded the vision in the glare of opportunism. And far down by the water-fronts are the slum wastes where the sewers of politics and business and social life pour forth their fetid filth. Here the journals of yellow shade grub and fatten. In this ooze and slime puddle the hordes of sewer rats, scavengers of the world's garbage, from whose collected stores the editor selects his daily mess for the delectation of the great unwashed, whether of the classes or of the masses, and from which he grabs in large handfuls that viscous mud that sticks and stings where it sticks. The Daily Telegraph was born yellow, a frank yellow of the barbaric type that despises neutral tints. By the Daily Telegraph things were called by their uneuphemistic names. A spade was a spade, and mud was mud, and nothing was sacred from its sewer rats. The highest paid official on its staff was a criminal lawyer celebrated in the libel courts. Everybody cursed it and everybody read it. After a season, having thus firmly established itself in the enmities of the community, and having become, in consequence, financially secure, it began to aspire toward the uplands, where the harvests were as rich and at the same time less perilous as well as less offensive in the reaping. It began to study euphemism. A spade became an agricultural implement and mud alluvial deposit. Having become by long experience a specialist in the business of moral scavenging, it proceeded to devote itself with most vehement energy to the business of moral reform. All indecencies that could not successfully cover themselves with such gilding as good hard gold can give were ruthlessly held up to public contempt. It continued to be cursed, but gradually came to be respected and feared. It was to aid in this upward climb that the editor of the Daily Telegraph seized upon Dick. That young man was peculiarly fitted for the part which was to be assigned to him. He was a theological student and, therefore, his ethical standards were unimpeachable. His university training guaranteed his literary sense, and his connection with the University and College papers had revealed him a master of terse English. He was the very man, indeed, but he must serve his apprenticeship with the sewer rats. For months he toiled amid much slime and filth, breathing in its stinking odours, gaining knowledge, it is true, but paying dear for it in the golden coin of that finer sensibility and that vigorous moral health which had formerly made his life, to himself and to others, a joy and beauty. For the slime would stick, do what he could, and with the smells he must become so familiar that they no longer offended. That delicate discrimination that immediately detects the presence of decay departed from him, and in its place there developed a coarser sense whose characteristic was its power to distinguish between sewage and sewage. Hence, morality, with him, came to consist in the choosing of sewage of the less offensive forms. On the other hand, consciousness of the brand of heresy drove him from those scenes where the air is pure and from association with those high souls who by mere living exhale spiritual health and fragrance. "We do not see much of Mr. Boyle these days, Margaret," Mrs. Macdougall would say to her friend, carefully modulating her tone lest she should betray the anxiety of her gentle, loyal heart. "But I doubt not he is very busy with his new duties." "Yes, he is very busy," Margaret would reply, striving to guard her voice with equal care, but with less success. For Margaret was cursed, nay blessed, with that heart of infinite motherhood that yearns over the broken or the weak or the straying of humankind, and makes their pain its own. "Bring him with you to tea next Sabbath evening, my dear," the little lady would say, with never a quiver or inflection of voice betraying that she had detected the girl's anxiety for her friend. But more infrequently, as the days went on, could she secure Dick for an hour on Sabbath evening in the quiet, sweet little nook of the professor's dining-room. He was so often held by his work, but more often by his attendance upon Iola, for between Iola and him there had grown up and ripened rapidly an intimacy that Margaret regarded with distrust and fear. How she hated herself for her suspicions! How she fought to forbid them harbour in her heart! But how persistently they made entrance and to abide. The World of Fashion is, for the most part, a desert island of gleaming sands, at times fanned by perfume-laden zephyrs and lapped by shining waters. Then those who dwell there disport themselves, careless of all save the lapping, shining waters and the gleaming sands out of which they build their sand castles with such concentrated eagerness and such painful industry. At other times there come tempests, sudden and out of clear skies, which sweep, with ruthless besom, castles and castle-builders alike, and leave desolation and empty spaces for a time. A silly world it is, and hard of heart, and like to die of ennui at times. And hence it welcomes with pathetic joy all who can bring some new fancy or trick to their castle-building, rejecting all other without remorse. To this World of Fashion Iola had offered herself, giving freely her great voice and her superb body, now developed into the full splendour of its rich and sensuous beauty. And how they gathered about her and gave her unstinted their flatteries and homage, taking toll the while of the very soul-stuff in her. Devoutly they worshipped at the shrine of that heavenlike and heaven-given instrument wherewith she could tickle their senses, rejoicing, during the pauses of their envies and hatreds, such among them as were female, and of their lusts and despairs such as were male, in her warm flesh tints and full flesh curves and the draperies withal wherewith, with consummate art, she revealed or enhanced the same. For Iola was possessed of a fatal, maddening beauty, and an alluring fascination of manner that wrought destruction among men and fury among women. To Dick, who, with his brilliant talents, shed lustre upon her courts, Iola gave chief place in her train, yet in such manner as that her preference for him neither lessened the number nor checked the ardour of her devotees. He was her friend of childhood days, her good friend, but nothing more. Upon this basis of a boy and girl friendship was established an intimacy which seemed to render unnecessary those conventions, unreal and vexing in appearance, but which, as the wise old world has proved, man and woman with the dread potencies of passion slumbering within them cannot afford to despise. By their mutual tastes, as by their habits of life, Iola and Dick were brought into daily association. Under Dick's guidance she read and studied the masters of the English drama. For she had her eye now upon the operatic stage and was at present devoting herself to the great musical dramas of Wagner. Together they took full advantage of the theatre privileges which Dick's connection with the press gave him. And at those festive routs by which society amuses and vexes itself they were constantly thrown together. Dick was acutely and growingly sensitive to the influence Iola had upon him. Her beauty disturbed him. The subtle potency that exhaled from her physical charms affected him like draughts of wine. Away from her presence he marvelled at himself and scorned his weakness; but once within sound of her voice, within touch of her hand, her power reasserted itself. The mystery of the body, its subtle appeal, its terrible potency, allured and enslaved him. Against this infatuation of Dick's, Margaret felt herself helpless. She well knew that Dick's love for her had not changed, except to grow into a bitter, despairing intensity that made his presence painful to her at times. This very love of his closed her lips. She could only wait her time, meanwhile keeping such touch with him as she could, bringing to him the wholesome fragrance of a pure heart and the strength and serenity of a life devoted to well doing. Something would occur to recall him to his better self. And something did occur. Almost a year had elapsed since Barney had gone out of Iola's life in so tragic a way. Through all the months of the year he had waited, longing and hoping for the word that might recall him to her, until suspense became unbearable even for his strong soul. Hence it was that Iola received from him a letter breathing of love so deep, so tender, and withal so humble, that even across the space that these months had put between Barney and herself, Iola was profoundly stirred and sorely put to it to decide upon her answer. She took the letter to Margaret and read her such parts as she thought necessary. "A year has gone. It seems like ten. I have waited for your word, but none has come. Looking back upon that dreadful night I sometimes think I may have been severe. If so, my punishment has been heavy enough to atone. Tell me, shall I come to you? I can offer you a home even better than I had hoped a year ago. I am offered a lectureship here with an ample salary, or an assistantship on equal terms, by Trent. I have discovered that I am in the grip of a love beyond my power to control. In spite of all that my work is to me, I find myself looking, not into the book before me, but into your eyes--I may be able to live without you, but I cannot live my best. I don't see how I can live at all. It seems as if I could not wait even a few days for your word to come. Darling, my heart's love, tell me to come." "How can I answer a letter like that?" said Iola to Margaret. "How?" exclaimed Margaret. "Tell him to come. Wire him. Go to him. Anything to get him to you." Iola mused a while. "He wants me to marry him and to keep his house." "Yes," said Margaret, "he does." "Housekeeping and babies, ugh!" shuddered Iola. "Yes," cried Margaret, "ah, God, yes! Housekeeping and babies and Barney! God pity your poor soul!" Iola shrank from the fierce intensity of Margaret's sudden passion. "What do you mean?" she cried. "Why do you speak so?" "Why? Can't you read God's meaning in your woman's body and in your woman's heart?" From Margaret Iola got little help. Indeed, the gulf between the two was growing wider every day. She resolved to show her letter to Dick. They were to go that evening to the play and after the play there would be supper. And when he had taken her home she would show him the letter. On their way home that evening as they were passing Dick's rooms, he suddenly remembered that a message was to be sent him from the office. "Let us run in for a moment," he said. "I think I had better wait you here," replied Iola. "Nonsense!" cried Dick. "Don't be a baby. Come in." Together they entered and, laying aside her wrap, Iola sat down and drew forth Barney's letter. "Listen, Dick. I want your advice." And she read over such portions of Barney's letter as she thought necessary. "Well?" she said, as Dick remained silent. "Well," replied Dick, "what's your answer to be?" "You know what he means," said Iola a little impatiently. "He wants me to marry him at once and to settle down." "Well," said Dick, "why not?" "Now, Dick," cried Iola, "do you think I am suited for that kind of life? Can you picture me devoting myself to the keeping of a house tidy, the overseeing of meals? I fancy I see myself spending the long, quiet evenings, my husband busy in his office or out among his patients while I dose and yawn and grow fat and old and ugly, and the great world forgetting. Dick, I should die! Of course, I love Barney. But I must have life, movement. I can't be forgotten!" "Forgotten?" cried Dick. "Why should you be forgotten? Barney's wife could not be ignored and the world could not forget you. And, after all," added Dick, in a musing tone, "to live with Barney ought to be good enough for any woman." "Why, how eloquent you are, Dick!" she cried, making a little moue. "You are quite irresistible!" she added, leaning toward him with a mocking laugh. "Come, let us go," said Dick painfully, conscious of her physical charm. "We must get away." "But you haven't helped me, Dick," she cried, drawing nearer to him and laying her hand upon his arm. The perfume of her hair smote upon his senses. The beauty of her face and form intoxicated him. He knew he was losing control of himself. "Come, Iola," he said, "let us go." "Tell me what to say, Dick," she replied, smiling into his face and leaning toward him. "How can I tell you?" cried Dick desperately, springing up. "I only know you are beautiful, Iola, beautiful as an angel, as a devil! What has come over you, or is it me, that you should affect me so? Do you know," he added roughly, lifting her to her feet, his breath coming hard and fast, "I can hardly keep my hands off you. We must go. I must go. Come!" "Poor child," mocked Iola, still smiling into his eyes, "is it afraid it will get hurt?" "Stop it, Iola!" cried Dick. "Come on!" "Come," she mocked, still leaning toward him. Swiftly Dick turned, seized her in his arms, his eyes burning down upon her mocking face. "Kiss me!" he commanded. Gradually she allowed the weight of her body to lean upon him, drawing him steadily down toward her the while, with the deep, passionate lure of her lustrous eyes. "Kiss me!" he commanded again. But she shook her head, holding him still with her gaze. "God in heaven!" cried Dick. "Go away!" He made to push her from him. She clasped him about the neck, allowing herself to sink in his arms with her face turned upward to his. Fiercely he crushed her to him, and again and again his hot, passionate kisses fell upon her face. Conscious only of the passion throbbing in their hearts and pulsing through their bodies, oblivious to all about them, they heard not the opening of the door and knew not that a man had entered the room. For a single moment he stood stricken with horror as if gazing upon death itself. Turning to depart, his foot caught a chair. Terror-smitten, the two sprang apart and stood with guilt and shame stamped upon their ghastly faces. "Barney!" they cried together. Slowly he came back to them. "Yes, it is I." The words seemed to come from some far distance. "I couldn't wait. I came for my answer, Iola. I thought I could persuade you better. I have it now. I have lost you! And"--here he turned to Dick--"oh, my God! My God! I have lost my brother, too!" he turned to depart from him. "Barney," cried Dick passionately, "there was no wrong! There was nothing beyond what you saw!" "Was that all?" inquired his brother quietly. "As God is in heaven, Barney, that was all!" Barney threw a swift glance round the room, crossed to a side table, and picked up a Bible lying there. He turned the leaves rapidly and handed it to his brother with his finger upon a verse. "Read!" he said. "You know your Bible. Read!" His voice was terrible and compelling in its calmness. Following the pointing finger, Dick's eyes fell upon words that seemed to sear his eyeballs as he read, "Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her, hath committed adultery with her already in his heart." Heart-smitten, Dick stood without a word. "I could kill you now," said the quiet, terrible voice. "But what need? To me you are already dead." When Dick looked up his brother had gone. Nerveless, broken, he sank into a chair and sat with his face in his hands. Beside him stood Iola, pale, rigid, her eyes distended as if she had seen a horrid vision. She was the first to recover. "Dick," she said softly, laying her hand upon his head. He sprang up as if her fingers had been red-hot iron and had burned to the bone. "Don't touch me!" he cried in vehement frenzy. "You are a devil! And I am in hell! In hell! do you hear?" He caught her by the arm and shook her. "And I deserve hell! Hell! Hell! Fools! no hell?" He turned again to her. "And for you, for this, and this, and this," touching her hair, her cheek, and her heaving bosom with his finger, "I have lost my brother--my brother--my own brother--Barney. Oh, fool that I am! Damned! Damned! Damned!" She shrank back from him, then whispered with pale lips, "Oh, Dick, spare me! Take me home!" "Yes, yes," he cried in mad haste, "anywhere, in the devil's name! Come! Come!" He seized her wrap, threw it upon her shoulders, caught up his hat, tore open the door for her, and followed her out. "Can a man take fire into his bosom and not be burned?" And out of the embers of his passion there kindled a fire that night that burned with unquenchable fury for many a day. _ |
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