Arthur Thomas Quiller Couch - "I Saw Three Ships and Other Winter Tales"

J. W. Duffield - "The Radio Boys in the Thousand Islands "

George W. E. Russell - "Sydney Smith"

Amy Brooks - "Dorothy Dainty's Gay Times"

Books: Book review: 'The Mercy Papers' and 'Downtown Owl'
Moreover Technologies - Premier purveyor of real-time news and RSS feeds from across the Web

Book Review: The Horror, the Horror
Ad -

How to live what Michael Pollan preaches
The Mercy Papers A Memoir of Three Weeks By Robin Romm 213 pages. Scribner. $22. The foundational condition of being human is that we're going to die. Almost as basic a truth is that we seem incapable of believing it. The collision of these inconsonant

A / B / C / D / E / F / G / H / I / J / K / L / M / N / O / P / R / S / T / U / V / W / Y / Z

Broken to the Plow written by Charles Caldwell Dobie

C >> Charles Caldwell Dobie >> Broken to the Plow




But sitting there, facing this trio, each busy with his own swift
thought, it gradually dawned upon Fred Starratt that now they were
afraid of him. Like a captured and blinded Samson he was in a position
to bring the temple walls crashing down upon them all. _They_ might
elect to be silent, but what a voice _he_ could raise!... He had come
out of a chuckling silence to hear Hilmer saying between almost shut
teeth:

"I suppose you'll be needing money now, Starratt... Railroad rates
have all been raised."

He felt at that moment the same triumph as when Storch had turned the
key in its lock... Hilmer always did walk directly to his objective
... but there were times when subtleties had more power. He remembered
the quiet thrust of his own voice measuring his adversary's
expectancy:

"A man in my situation needs nothing, Hilmer ... least of all
_money_!"

He never forgot the look of contempt which Hilmer threw at him ... but
this time it had been a contempt for the unfathomable. Helen's face
was white; only Mrs. Hilmer had continued to smile ... a set, ghastly,
cruel smile of complete satisfaction. And, in the silence which
followed, it was Mrs. Hilmer's voice that brought them all back with a
start as she said:

"Well, here we are ... home again!"

It was the same voice that had broken in upon another tense situation
months before with:

"What nice corn pudding this is, Mrs. Starratt...Would you mind
telling me how you made it?"

Had they been moving in a circle since that fatal evening, Fred had
found himself wondering...or had he merely been dreaming?

The scene which followed had been unforgetable--the chauffeur and
Hilmer lifting Mrs. Hilmer into her wheeled chair; Helen Starratt
coming forward considerately with a steamer rug for the invalid's
comfort; Fred, standing outside the pale of all this activity like a
dreamer constructing stage directions for the puppets of his
imagination. And out of the almost placid atmosphere of domestic
bustle the voice of Mrs. Hilmer again breaking the stillness, this
time with a cool and knifelike precision as she said, turning her
pale, icy eyes on Helen Starratt:

"My dear, your nurse-girl days are over...We've had you a long time
and we can't be too selfish--now that your husband is back!"

Could Fred ever wipe from his memory the startled look which had swept
Helen's face as she released her hold on the wheeled chair? Or the
diabolical content with which Mrs. Hilmer settled back as she went on
slowly, clearly, as if the steady drip of her words fascinated her:

"You wouldn't want to stay here...this is no place for lovers...And,
besides, there isn't room for _two_!"

Helen's hands had fallen inertly at her sides as she stood facing
Hilmer, as if waiting for his decision. But he had made no move, he
merely had returned her gaze in equal silence. At that moment Mrs.
Hilmer's clawlike fingers closed over her husband's mangled thumb with
a clutch of triumph and she had turned with a painful twist to dart
her venomous scorn at Helen. A fortnight ago the doctors had given
Mrs. Hilmer a scant six months of life. But now Fred Starratt knew
that she would live as long as her spirits had vengeance to feed upon.

Thus had the door closed upon Hilmer and his crippled gaoler. Already
Helen Starratt had gained the street corner. Fred was seized with an
impulse to overtake her, but it had died as quickly. There was nothing
he could offer ... not even a lodging for the night. Instead he had
turned and walked briskly in an opposite direction.

* * * * *

As he drew nearer town the cries of the newsboys grew more insistent
... so insistent that Fred bought a paper. By this time they had
cleared away the charred wreckage of Storch's shack, discovering the
secret which its ruins had concealed. He found himself wondering how
soon they would link him with the still-born plot which had achieved
so much tragedy in spite of its miscarriage. Of Ginger there was
little trace. She had been caught up in a winding sheet of flame, a
chariot of fire which had swept clean her pitiful and outraged body...
Again he saw her face, wistful in the glare of that portentous noon,
framed by the outline of Storch's doorway, heard himself call her name
in agony, and woke to find only a memory answering him. And there came
to him a realization of the terrible beauty of that moment which had
released her spirit in white-heated transfiguration.

A sudden pity for the living began to well up within him ... for
Hilmer in the relentless grip of the harpy who would tear at his
content with her scrawny fingers ... for Mrs. Hilmer, condemned to
feed to the end upon the bitter fruits of hatred ... for his wife,
drifting to a pallid fate made up of petty adjustments and
compromises. Yes ... he found himself pitying Helen Starratt most of
all. Because he had a feeling that she would go on to the end cloaking
her primitive impulses in a curious covering of self-deception. She
would never understand ... never! She would always be restless,
straining at the conventions, but unable or unwilling to pay the price
of full freedom. And her remaining days would be spent in a futile
pulling at the chains which her own cowardice had forged. She would
not even have the memory of bitter-sweet delights.

He came from these musings to discover that his feet had strayed
instinctively to the old garden which provoked the memory of his
father and mother. But he found it destroyed utterly ... its prim beds
swept aside to make way for a huge apartment house. The last
intangible link which had bound him to his old life had been
destroyed.

He turned away, almost with a feeling of relief--the past was forever
dead, burying itself in its own tragic oblivion. He climbed higher, to
the topmost point of the Hyde Street Hill, up the steps leading to the
reservoir. It was another night of provocative perfumes and promissory
warmths. He skirted the sun-baked slopes, sown with blossoming
alfalfa, and came upon a clump of wind-tortured acacia bushes facing
the west. He threw himself down and lay in a sweet physical truce,
gazing up at the twinkling sky. He was alone with the night, he had
not even a disciple to betray him.

He knew that if he willed it so he could be up and off, forever
eluding, forever flaunting the law's ubiquitous presence. The sharp
urge for subtle revenge which had come with realization of his power
had passed, but he was done with any and all compromises, he had no
heart for the decaying fruits of deception.

Would they find him here wrapped in the cool fragrance of the night,
or must he go down to them, yielding himself up silently and without
bitterness? He had touched life at every point. He could say, now,
with Hilmer:

"I know all the dirty, rotten things of life by direct contact!"

Yes, even to murder.

And with Storch he could repeat:

"A man who's been through hell is like a field broken to the plow.
He's ready for seed."

He _was_ ready for seed, so freshly and deeply broken that he had a
passion to lie fallow against a worthy sowing.

Presently, enveloped in the perfect and childlike faith which follows
revelation, he slept, with his face turned toward the stars. And as he
stirred ever so slightly he felt the nearness of two souls. Clearly
and more clearly they defined themselves until he knew them for those
two erring companions of his misery who had been made suddenly perfect
in the crucible of sorrow and sacrifice. They came toward him in a
white, silent beauty, until on one side stood Felix Monet and on the
other Sylvia Molineaux.

And before him in review passed a motley company of every tragic group
that he had ever known--business associates, jailbirds, the inmates of
Fairview, Storch's terrible companions. He recognized each group in
its turn by their outer trappings. But suddenly their clothes melted
and even their flesh dissolved, and he saw nothing but a company of
skeletons stripped of all unessentials, and he could no longer mark
them apart. And, in a flash, even these unmarked figures crumbled to
dust, spreading out like a sunlit plain at noonday. And he saw clouds
gather and rain fall and green blades spring up miraculously and
blossom succeed blossom. And through it all Felix Monet stood on one
side and Sylvia Molineaux on the other.

He awoke to the vigorous prod of a contemptuous boot. A policeman
stood over him.

"What are you doing here?" the officer bellowed down at him.

He rose quickly. The sun was bathing the rejuvenated city in a flood
of wonderful gold.

"My name is Fred Starratt," he said, quietly. "And I'm wanted for
murder ... and some other things. You'd better take me down."

The policeman grasped his arm and together they made their way down to
the level stretches of the paved street.

They stood for a moment to let a street car swing past. It was crowded
with clerks, standing on the running board. Above the warning clang of
the bell a voice came ringing out with a note of surprised
recognition:

"Hello, Fred Starratt! What's new?"

He made a trumpet with his hands.

"Everything!" he cried back, loudly. "_Everything in the world_!"




THE END