A Good Woman (Bromfield)/Part 2/Chapter 20
When Moses Slade was not in Washington, he always went on Sundays to the Baptist Church which stood just across the street from Emma's house of worship. It was not that he was a religious man, for he had enough to do without thinking about God. The service bored him and during the sermon he passed the time by turning his active mind toward subjects more earthly and practical, such as the speech he was to make next week at Caledonia, or what answer he would have for the Democratic attack upon his vote against the Farmers' Relief Bill. (How could they understand that what was good for farmers was bad for industry?) In the beginning, he had fallen into the habit of going to church because most of his votes came from churchgoing people: he went in the same spirit which led him to join sixteen fraternal organizations. But he had gone for so long now that he no longer had any doubts that he was a religious, God-fearing man. (In Washington it did not matter: he could sit at home on Sunday mornings in old clothes drinking his whisky with his feet up on a chair while he read farm papers and racing news.)
Of all the citizens of the Seven Hills, he alone appeared in the streets on Sunday mornings clad in a Prince Albert and a top-hat. Any other citizen in such a fancy-dress costume would have been an object of ridicule, but it was quite proper that he—the Honorable Moses Slade, Congressman—should be thus garbed. He carried it off beautifully; indeed, there was something grand and awe-inspiring in the spectacle of the big man with thick, flowing hair and an enormous front, standing on the steps of the First Baptist Church, speaking to fathers and mothers and patting miserable children imprisoned in stiff Sunday clothes.
On one hot September Sunday he was standing thus (having just patted the last wretched child) when the doors of the church opposite began to yield up its dead. Among the first to descend the Indiana limestone steps appeared the large, handsome figure of Emma, dressed entirely in dark clothing. Moses Slade noticed her at once, for it was impossible not to notice such a magnetic personage, and he fancied that she might go away without even knowing he was there. (He would never learn, of course, that she had hurried out almost before the last echo of Reverend Castor's Benediction had died away, because she knew that the Baptist Church was always over a little before her own.)
In that first glance, something happened to him which afterward made him feel silly, but at the moment had no such effect. A voice appeared to say, "I can't wait any longer," and excusing himself, he hurried, but with an air of dignity, down the steps of his church, and, crossing the street in full view of the now mingling congregations, raised his glistening top-hat, and said, "Good-morning, Mrs. Downes."
Emma turned with a faint air of surprise, but with only the weakest of smiles (for was she not in sorrow?) "Why, Mr. Slade, I didn't know you were back."
"May I walk a way with you?"
"Of course, it would be a pleasure."
Together they went off beneath the yellowing maples, the eyes of two congregations (to Emma's delight) fastened on them. One voice at least, that of the soured Miss Abercrombie, was raised in criticism. "There's no fool," she observed acidly, "like an old one."
When they had gone a little way beyond the reach of prying eyes and ears, Moses Slade became faintly personal in his conversation.
"I appreciated your sending me that postcard," he said.
"Well, I thought you'd like to see the new monument to General Sherman. I knew it was unveiled while you were away, and seeing that you took so much interest in it. . . ." Her voice died away with a note of sadness. The personal touch had filled them both with a sense of constraint, and in silence he helped her across the street, seizing her elbow as if it were a pump-handle.
Safely on the opposite side, he said, "I was sorry to hear of the illness of your son. I hope he's better by now."
Emma sighed. "No . . . he's not much better. You see, he gave up his health in Africa working among the natives." She sighed again. "I doubt if he'll ever be well again. He's such a good boy, too."
"Yes, I always heard that."
"Of course, he may not live. We have to face things, Mr. Slade. If God sees fit to take him, who am I to be bitter and complain? But it isn't easy . . . to have your only son. . . ." She began to cry, and it occurred to Moses Slade that she seemed to crumple and grow softly feminine in a way he had not thought possible in a woman of such character. He had never had any children of his own. He felt that she needed comforting, but for once words seemed of no use to him—the words which always flowed from him in an easy torrent.
"You'll forgive me, Mr. Slade, if I give way . . . but it's gone on for weeks now. Sometimes I wonder that the poor boy has any strength left."
"I understand, Mrs. Downes," he said, in a strange, soft voice.
"I always believe in facing things," she repeated. "There's no good in pretending." She was a little better now and dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. Fortunately, no one had passed them: no one had witnessed the spectacle of Emma Downes in tears, walking with Congressman Slade.
Before the slate-colored house, they halted, and Mr. Slade asked, "Would you mind if I came in? I'd like to hear how the boy is."
She left him in the parlor, sitting beneath the enlarged portrait of the late Mr. Downes, while she went off up the stairs to ask after Philip. Naomi and Mabelle were there talking, because Naomi no longer went out on account of her appearance, and Mabelle, who always went to sleep in church, avoided it whenever possible. Emma did not speak to them, but hurried past their door to the room where Philip lay white and still, looking thin and transparent, like a sick little boy.
Downstairs, in the darkened parlor, Moses Slade disposed his weight on the green plush, and, leaning on his stick, waited. His mind seemed to be in utter confusion, his brain all befogged. Nothing was very clear to him. He regarded the portrait of Emma's husband, remembering slowly that he had seen Downes years ago, and held a very poor opinion of him. He had been a clever enough fellow, but he never seemed to know where he was going. Emma (he had begun already with a satisfactory feeling of warmth to think of her thus) was probably well rid of him. She had made a brave struggle of it. A fine woman! Look how she behaved about this boy! She believed in facing things. Well, that was a fine, brave quality. He, too, believed in facing things. He couldn't let her go on alone like this. And he began to think of reason after reason why he should marry Emma Downes.
She was gone a long while, and presently he found his gaze wandering back to the portrait. The dead husband seemed to gaze at him with an air of mockery, as if he thought the whole affair was funny. Moses Slade turned in his chair a little, so that he did not look directly at the wooden portrait.
And then he fell to thinking of Philip. What was the boy like? Did he resemble his father or his mother? Had he any character? Certainly his behavior, as far as you could learn, had been queer and mysterious. He might be a liability, yes, a distinct liability, one which was always making trouble. Perhaps he (Moses Slade) ought to go a little more slowly. Of course the boy might die, and that would leave everything clear, with Emma to console. (He yearned impatiently to console her.) It was a wicked thought; but, of course, he wasn't actually hoping that the boy would die. He was only facing things squarely, considering the problem from every point of view as a statesman should.
Again he caught the portrait smirking at him, and then the door opened, and Emma came in. She had been crying again. He stood up quickly and the old voice said, "I can't wait any longer." He took her hand gently with a touch which he meant to be interpreted as a sympathetic prelude to something more profound. She didn't resist.
"Well?" he asked.
Emma sank down on the sofa. "I don't know. They thought he'd be better to-day, and . . . and, he isn't."
"You mustn't cry—you mustn't," he said in a husky voice.
"I don't know," she kept repeating. "I don't know what I'm to do. I'm so tired."
He sat down beside her, thankful suddenly that the room was dark, for in the darkness courtship was always easier, especially after middle-age. He now took her hand in both his. There was a long silence in which she gained control of herself, and she did not withdraw her hand nor resist in any way.
"Mrs. Downes," he said presently in a husky voice. "Emma. . . . Mrs. Downes. . . . I have something to ask you. I'm a sober, middle-aged man, and I've thought it over for a long time." He cleared his throat and gave her hand a gentle pressure. "I want you to Marry me."
She had known all along that it was coming. Indeed, it was almost like being a girl once more to see Moses Slade, man-like, working his way with the grace of an elephant toward the point; but now it came with the shock of surprise. She couldn't answer him at once for the choke in her throat. For weeks she had borne so much, known such waves of sorrow, that something of her unflagging spirit was broken. She thought, "At last, I am to have my reward for years of hard work. God is rewarding me for all my suffering."
She began to cry again, and Moses Slade asked quickly, "You aren't going to refuse—with all I can give you. . . ."
"No," she sobbed, and, leaning forward a little, as if for support, placed her free hand upon his fat knee. "No . . . I'm not going to refuse . . . only I can't quite believe it. . . . I've had such a hard time. I'd begun to think that I should never have a reward."
Suddenly he leaned over and took her awkwardly in his arms. She felt the heavy metal of his gold watch-chain pressing into her bare arm, and then she heard footsteps descending the stairs in the hallway. It was Mabelle going home at last. She was certain to open the door, because Mabelle couldn't pass a closed door without finding out what was going on behind it.
"Wait!" said Emma, sitting up very straight. "You'd better sit on the other chair."
Understanding what it was she meant, he rose and went back to the green plush. The steps continued, and then, miraculously, instead of halting, they went past the door and out into the street.
The spell was broken, and Moses Slade suddenly felt that he had made a fool of himself, as if he had been duped by an adventuress.
"It's Mabelle," said Emma, who had ceased weeping. "My brother Elmer's wife. She has such a snoopy disposition, I thought we'd better not be found . . . found . . . well, you understand." She blew her nose. "You've made me happy . . . you don't know what it's like to think that I won't have to go on any more . . . alone . . . old age is all right, if you're not alone. . . ."
"Yes, I understand that!" He was a little upset that she treated the affair as if they were an elderly pair marrying for the sake of company in adjoining rocking-chairs. That wasn't at all the way he had looked upon it. In fact, he had been rather proud at the thought of the youthful fervor which had driven him to cross the street a little while before. By some malicious ill-fortune, Mabelle's footsteps had cut short the declaration at the very moment when he had been ready to act in such a way as to establish the whole tone of their future relationship.
"Yes, I understand that," he repeated, "but there's no use talking about old age. Why, we're young—Emma—I suppose I can call you Emma?"
She blushed. "Why, yes, of course."
"You wouldn't mind if I called you just Em? That was my mother's name, and I always liked it."
"No, don't call me Em. It's a name I hate—not on account of your mother, of course . . . Moses."
She couldn't think why she objected to the name: she had been called Em all her life, but somehow it was connected with the vague far-off memory of the romantic Jason Downes. He had called her Em, and it seemed wrong to let this elderly, fleshy man use the same name. It seemed vaguely sacrilegious to put this second marriage on the same basis as the first. She had loved Jason Downes. She knew it just now more passionately than she had ever known it.
"You understand," she said, laying one hand gently on his.
"Yes, of course, Emma."
They were standing now, awkwardly waiting for something, and Moses Slade again suddenly took her in his arms. He pinched her arm, ever so gently—just a little pinch; and then he began at once to make a fool of himself again.
"When shall it be?" he asked. "We must fix a date."
She hesitated for a moment. "Don't ask me now. I'm all confused and I've had so much to worry me. We mustn't be hasty and undignified—a man in your position can't afford to be."
"We can be married quietly . . . any time. No one would know how long I'd been courting you." Then he suddenly became romantic. "The truth is that I've wanted to marry you ever since that day you came to see me. So it's been a long time, you see."
For a moment she was silent and thoughtful. At last she said, "There's one thing we ought to consider, Moses. I don't know about such things, but you'll know, being a lawyer. It's about my first husband. You see they never found his body out there in China. They only know he disappeared and must have been killed by bandits. Now what I mean is this . . . he mightn't be dead at all. He might have lost his mind or his memory. And if he turned up. ."
Moses Slade looked at her sharply. "You do want to marry me, don't you, Em . . . I mean Emma. . . . You're not trying to get out of it?"
"Of course I want to marry you. I only mentioned this because I believe in facing things."
"How long has he been gone?"
"It's twenty-four years this January. I remember it well. It was snowing that night, just after the January thaw. . . ."
He checked what would have been a long story by saying, "Twenty-four years . . . all alone without a husband. You're a brave little woman, Emma." He made a clicking sound with his tongue, and looked at her fondly. "Well, that's a long time . . . long enough for him to be considered dead under law. But we'll have him declared dead by law and then we won't have to worry."
Emma was staring at the floor with a curious fixed look in her eyes. At last she said, "Do you think that would be right? He might still be alive. He might come back."
Moses Slade grew blustering, as if he were actually jealous of that shadow of the man who kept looking down at him with an air of sardonic amusement.
"It won't make any difference if we declare him dead. Besides, he hasn't got any right to you if he is alive."
It wasn't that she was simply afraid he might return; the source of her alarm went much deeper than that. She felt that she couldn't trust herself if he did return; but of course she couldn't explain that to Moses.
"It wasn't quite that," she murmured, and, conscious that the remark didn't make sense, she asked quickly, "How long ought it to take?"
"A couple of months."
"We could be married after that?"
"Yes, as soon as possible."
Moses Slade took her hand again. "You've made me a happy man, Emma. You won't regret it." He picked up his hat. "I'd like to call to-night. Maybe you'd go to evening service with me?"
"No, I think we'd better not let any one know about it till it's settled."
"Maybe you're right. Well, I'll come to the restaurant to-morrow for lunch."
He kissed her again, a bit too ardently, she felt, to be quite pleasant, and they went into the hall. At the same moment the figure of Naomi appeared, descending the stairs heavily. She was clad only in a nightgown and a loose kimono of flowered stuff. Her hair, still in curl-papers, lay concealed beneath a kind of mob-cap of bright green satin, trimmed with soiled lace. It was impossible to avoid her.
"Naomi," said Emma, in a voice of acid, "this is Mr. Slade—Moses, my daughter-in-law, Naomi."
Naomi said, "Pleased to meet you." Moses Slade bowed, went through the door, and the meeting was over.
When the door closed, Emma stood for a moment with the knob in her hand. Naomi was watching her with a look of immense interest and curiosity strangely like the look that came so often into the eyes of Mabelle when curiosity about the subjects of love and childbirth became too strong for her feeble control.
"Is that Mr. Slade . . . the Congressman?" asked Naomi.
"Yes, it is." There was something in Naomi's look that maddened her, something that was questioning, shameless, offensive, and even accusing.
"What made him come to see us?"
Emma controlled herself. She felt lately that it was all she could bear always to have Naomi in the house.
"He came to ask about Philip."
"I didn't know that he knew Philip."
"He didn't, but he's an old friend of mine." The lie slipped easily from her tongue.
"Philip's better," Naomi answered. "He opened his eyes and looked at me. I think he knew me."
"Did he speak?"
"No, he just closed them again without saying anything."
Emma moved away from the door as Naomi turned into the dining-room. "Naomi," she called suddenly, "ig the Reverend Castor coming this afternoon?"
"Yes . . . he said he was."
"Surely you're going to put on some clothes before he comes?"
"I was going to fix my hair."
"You must put on some clothes. I won't have you going about the house all day looking like this—half dressed and untidy. You're a sight! What will a man like Mr. Slade think—a man who is used to Washington where there's good society."
Naomi stared at her for a moment with an unaccustomed look of defiance in her pale eyes. (Emma thought, "Mabelle has been making her into a slattern like herself.")
"Well, in my condition, clothes aren't very comfortable. I think in my condition I might have some consideration."
Emma began to breathe heavily. "That has nothing to do with it. When I was in your condition I dressed and went about my work every day. I wore corsets right up to the end."
"Well, I'm not strong like you. . . . The doctor told me . . ."
Emma broke in upon her. "The doctor didn't tell you to go about looking like a slattern all day! I wish you'd tell Mabelle for me that I'd like to come home just once without finding her here."
The fierce tension could not endure. When it broke sharply, Naomi sat down and began to cry. "Now you want to take her away from me," she sobbed. "I've given up everything to please you and Philip . . . everything. I even gave up going back to Megambo, where the Lord meant me to be. And now I haven't got anything left . . . and you all hate me. Yes, you do. And Philip does too sometimes. . . . He hates me. . . . You wanted me to marry him, and now see what's come of it. I'm even in this condition because you wanted me to be." She began to cry more and more wildly. "I'll run out into the street. I'll kill myself. I'll run away, and then maybe you'll be happy. I won't burden you any longer."
Emma was shaking her now, violently, with all the shame and fury she felt at Moses' encounter with this slatternly daughter-in-law, and all the contempt she felt for a creature so poor spirited.
"You'll do no such thing, you little fool! You'll brace up and behave like a woman with some sense!"
But it was no good. Naomi was simply having one of her seizures. She grew more hysterical, crying out, "You'd like to be rid of me . . . both of you. You both hate me. . . . Oh, I know . . . I know . . . I'm nothing now . . . nothing to anybody in the world! I'm just in your way."
Emma, biting her lip, left her abruptly, closing the door behind with ferocious violence. If she had not gone at once, she felt that she would have laid hands on Naomi.
Moses Slade, bound toward his own house, walked slowly, lost once more in a disturbing cloud of doubts. With Emma out of sight, the ardent lover yielded place to the calculating politician. He suffered, he did not know why, from a feeling of having been duped. The sight of Naomi so untidy and ill-kempt troubled him. He hadn't known about the child. The girl must be at least seven months gone, and he hadn't known it. Of course (he thought) you couldn't have expected Emma voluntarily to mention a subject so indelicate. Nevertheless, he felt that she should have conveyed the knowledge to him in some discreet fashion. Even if the boy did die, the situation would be just as bad, or worse. If he left a widow and a child. . . . He felt suddenly as if in some way Emma herself had tricked him, as if she herself were having a child, and had tricked him into marrying her to protect herself. . . .
In a kind of anguish he regretted again that he had been so impetuous in his proposal to the widow Barnes that he had shocked her into refusal. She wasn't so fine-looking a woman as Emma, but she was free, without encumbrances or responsibilities, without a child. Of course, Emma would never know that in the midst of his courtship he had been diverted by the prospect of Mrs. Barnes. She would never know what had been the reason for the months of silence. . . .