“But the child is expected to learn to perform his, um, household duties, and the mother can’t very well stand over him every minute to see that he does them. Mm. Do you see? If. the child wants to shirk his duties, conscience—ahem—must guide him to the work—or he’ll, um, go without his supper. Conscience must guide the adult to his responsibilities, too—or he’ll go without salvation. And salvation, unearned, would be, um, to say the least, tasteless stuff, Arthur.”
“I think I understand now,” said Bass with a dry throat. “Thank you, Dean.”
BASS was a proper young man, with no previous experience of any but proper thoughts; but he was learning the other kind, now, with a facility that surprised him.
“Salvation,” the Dean had said, “would be tasteless stuff, unearned….” And damnation, unearned? Was that supposed to have a pleasant taste?
He had searched his memory, again and again, for any sin of omission, and found nothing in his whole adult life. Until he was ten, of course, he had been a child, and had committed childish errors. Was he being condemned for those? It was unreasonable; Bass had heard stories of saintly children who walked the road of righteousness before they could toddle, and communed with their angels only to receive praise, but he had never met one—they must be extremely rare.
Clearly, then, the Infinite had withdrawn its grace from him simply to make him serve as an example, so that “human vanity and wilfulness might not grow so strong that we’d all cast out our angels.” He had been, chosen at random, as an orchardman might prune one branch from a tree.
Something, he felt vaguely, was wrong with the notion of an Infinite power without justice … and he could not follow up that thought; there were frightening implications beyond it—but he had made a discovery about himself, and that, at least, he clung to.
Bass did not want to die, not even to please the Infinite or edify his fellowmen.
His plans were made. Beyond the Pacific were the picturesque lands, dotted here and there on the map, where brown-or yellow-skinned men still lived in a state of nature. The Store was always asking for contributions for its missionary work there; but there must be some places left where even the missionaries had not gone.
And Bass had plane reservations for Pasadena, which—as he had verified by looking it up in his grade-school geography—was a part of Los Angeles, which was a seaport. He couldn’t go to the College; he had fooled Laudermilk, but he couldn’t hope to fool the examiners there, the very place where Deacons were made. Neither could he stay in Glenbrook after being chosen for the College. But he could go to Pasadena, slip away quietly at the airport, and get aboard a ship bound for Thailand or Timbuctoo. With any luck, he would be clear off the map long before the chase caught up with him; he could spend the rest of his life hunting wild boars and drinking coconut milk.
He had called up the airport, verified his reservation, and had the date moved back to today. He had gone home, announced that he was leaving, and suffered through a half-hour’s leave-taking: his aunt’s tears, his uncle’s incoherent pride, his cousin’s excitement. It had been hard to lie to them, but not half so hard as it would have been if he had waited the full week. He had packed three trunks which he would abandon in Pasadena, and one light grip to take with him, and seen them carted off to the airport. Now there was only one thing left to do.
He crossed the yard, skirting the massive old elm, and walked back along the side of the house to the kitchen window. Inside, Gloria Andresson was stirring something in a bowl, flushed and vigorous, tendrils of golden hair loosed at her temples. On the far side of the room Mrs. Andresson was icing a cake, and the two younger daughters were watching her.
Bass scratched gently on the window-screen. Gloria looked up abstractedly, raising a round arm to brush the hair-back from her forehead. Then she saw him; her eyes widened: She glanced behind her, put down her mixing spoon and left the room. A moment later she was with him under the elm.
“Don’t you want to come in, Arthur?” she murmured.
“I can’t—I haven’t got time. I came to say good-by.”
Her lips shaped the word silently after him, her brows drawn down in puzzlement and dismay.
“I’ve been picked to go to Cal Mere,” he said. “I have to leave today—half an hour from now.”
“Oh,” she said slowly. “That’s wonderful for you, Arthur, but— How long will you be gone?”
“A long time. Seven years. And,” he lied harshly, “they won’t let me marry until I graduate.”
“Oh, Arthur!”
“I know. I’d rather stay here, even: if I had to go back to common labor, but there wasn’t anything I could do.”
She clenched her fists at her sides, then opened them again. “You mustn’t say that,” she said in a strained voice. “It’s a—wonderful opportunity.”
Her head was lowered, her eyes half-closed; he could see her dark lashes tangled with tears. He moved a step closer, involuntarily, and found himself breathing her perfume. He could see a tiny pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. Her breasts swelled against the dark wool, drew back, swelled again… .
“I’ll write to you,” she said faintly.
“No. It wouldn’t be any good. No for seven years… I’d better say good-by now.”
She turned her face up and made sudden convulsive motion toward him checked it as suddenly, while her eyes turned to look at something invisible over his shoulder. She stood listening—listening, Bass realized bitterly, to the angel telling her she mustn’t touch him because they weren’t married.
“Oh, please,” she said to that invisible shape. “Just this once—”
Bass made a strangling noise in his throat and stepped forward as if he had been shoved. For an instant his arms were around her; he bumped her nose with his, and their teeth grated jarringly. Then his arms were empty.
She was standing a yard away from him, jaw hanging open, eyes staring through a curtain of disordered hair. He took a step after her. “Gloria—”
“Get away from me,” she said breathlessly. She gulped, filled her lungs, and let out a healthy scream. Then she turned and ran.
Standing where she had left him, Bass listened to the slamming of the back door, the commotion inside the house, and Gloria’s voice overriding it, loud, excited and dramatic. She was telling her family all about it.
Ten minutes later, running along a back street, startled faces popping out of doors to watch him, he heard the sirens climbing the hill behind him.
IV
HE STOOD, panting a little, with his back to a wall. It was a six-foot wall, stuccoed on the other side, raw brick on this. He had crawled the last thirty yards, along a hedge that grew between two houses, before he could reach it and climb over.
Now he was safe, because he was dead. On the other side of that wall he had a name and a place, relationships, duties, obligations and rewards. On this side, he was nothing: so far as Glenbrook was concerned, he did not exist. In effect, he had committed suicide by climbing the wall. There had been nothing else he could do; he had left himself no other way.
He thought of the single moment when he had Gloria in his arms. That had probably been the world’s least satisfactory kiss, he thought bitterly, and he had given his life for it. His lips tightened. What was it about the world hat made it possible for such cruelty to explode in a moment out of tenderness?
She wasn’t to blame for screaming when he kissed her; anyone would have done the same—but what about the gusto in her voice when she was telling her parents to call the Guard quickly, because poor Arthur was possessed?