None But My Foe

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NONE BUT MY FOE

By

DAVID DUNCAN

None But My Foe was originally published in 1950 by The Macmillan Company, New York.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

DEDICATION 5

CHAPTER ONE 7

CHAPTER TWO 25

CHAPTER THREE 31

CHAPTER FOUR 40

CHAPTER FIVE 47

CHAPTER SIX 55

CHAPTER SEVEN 69

CHAPTER EIGHT 77

CHAPTER NINE 84

CHAPTER TEN 96

CHAPTER ELEVEN 112

CHAPTER TWELVE 122

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 132

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 143

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 157

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 163

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 171

DEDICATION

In Gratitude to those at 907

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,

And curst the hand that fired the shot,

When in my arms burd Helen dropt,

And died to succor me!

As I went down the waterside,

Nane but my foe to be my guide,

Nane but my foe to be my guide,

On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw,

I hacked him in pieces sma’,

I hacked him in pieces sma’,

For her sake that died for me.

I wad I were where Helen lies;

Night and day on me she cries;

And I am weary of the skies,

Since my Love died for me.

—Old ballad

CHAPTER ONE

The telephone rang and startled Stephen from his reverie before the fire. Its subdued tinkle was a summons commanding him to conform to still one more convention, and this angered him even though he was himself responsible for the telephone call. It angered him the more for that reason. He lifted the receiver to his ear and spoke into the mouthpiece.

The operator said, Ready on your long-distance call, sir.

He waited nervously for the unknown voice, the fingers of his free hand twisting the curls of beard below his chin. Once this was over perhaps he could give up any further attempts at propriety.

Hello, a woman’s voice said. Hello...hello? He didn’t know quite how to address her, never having spoken to her before.

This is Stephen, he said.

Stephen?...Of course. The voice waited. What is it, Stephen? The voice was like Ellen’s, low and gentle. There was no easy or pleasant way of doing this thing. They were both confronted by a fact that couldn’t be wiped out. For the moment, only Stephen was aware of it; his job now was to thrust it upon this unsuspecting woman who waited patiently at the other end of the line, thousands of miles away. Suddenly his anger at the fact itself, his anger at being compelled to speak of it, and his anger at himself for obeying the compulsion all condensed into a hard, choking lump of bitterness that forced the words from his mouth with brutal savagery. He felt as though he had bridged the miles between himself and this woman and struck her.

I called about Ellen, he said. She’s dead.

There was a long silence. He held the receiver tight against his ear, saying nothing in explanation but waiting to answer any questions Ellen’s mother might ask.

I see, the voice said quietly at last. When did it happen, Stephen?

Three days ago. Would she ask why he hadn’t called sooner? If she did, he’d tell her. He’d say to her: I didn’t call because then you’d have come, and there’d have been no sense in your coming. We’d have had nothing to talk about except Ellen, and there’d have been no purpose to that either. I can’t stand sentiment. As long as we didn’t happen to meet during Ellen’s lifetime, there was no reason to meet at her funeral. But Ellen’s mother didn’t ask him why he hadn’t called sooner.

I see, she repeated. What happened, Stephen?

Pneumonia, he said. Very sudden. No one knew.

Is there anything I can do for you?

No, he said. The funeral was this morning.

I understand, Stephen, the soft voice assured him. I understand. Write me a letter. That will be enough.

I’ll write you a letter, he said, realizing that in saying it he was binding himself to still another conventional act. And the telephone call was to have been the end.

Goodbye, she said. He repeated the word and put down the receiver. He felt dizzy and sick. The anger was still in him, and the moment’s brutality at the telephone had done nothing to release it. He’d struck out at the wrong person again, a person who’d done him no harm whatsoever—a stranger. She hadn’t known even that he was striking at her. In her own words she’d said she understood, and he was certain she must have. After all, she was Ellen’s mother. Ellen must have acquired her own gift of understanding somewhere.

He thrust his hands into his pockets and walked back across the stone floor toward his chair. By the fireplace his foot struck the tongs, knocking them down so that they clanged horribly in the silent house and hummed like a timing fork until he bent and stilled them with his hand. The fire had burned low and the room had become quite dark. Outside the evening was wet and drippy with fog. He could hear the condensed moisture dropping from the eaves and pattering on the shake roof from the pine boughs above. Distantly he could hear the rumble of the surf rising and falling but never quite ceasing altogether. The curve of the beach was such that somewhere along its front a wave was always breaking. He turned on a lamp and then straightened as he heard footsteps coming along the flagstones toward his door. For a moment he considered turning the lamp off again so he could pretend he wasn’t at home, but it was already too late for that. Someone was knocking. As he crossed the room to the door, he hoped it might be Hubert Tolerson, but the hope was disappointed. Florence and Langley Briton stood on the threshold.

Stephen was in no mood for company, least of all the company of Florence and Langley, whose presence always seemed to demand a continuous series of social responses that were as artificial to Stephen as they were genuine to Langley. Langley Briton was the mayor of Blake, an unpaid office since the town wasn’t populous enough to afford a salary for its mayor. However, the position was still a legal one and as such it symbolized for Stephen all the officious meddling and stupidity that had somehow led to Ellen’s death. Langley Briton himself did not appear stupid. His expression, habitually shrewd, was now softened by an assumption of sympathy. He stood there in the gathering dusk, still dressed in the dark suit he’d worn to the funeral, a tall athletic figure dignified by a showing of crisp gray hair at the temples.

Beside him stood his wife. Florence was years younger than Langley; but since Stephen had first met her after her marriage, he thought of her as the matron rather than the young girl. Her hair was dark and her face had an oriental cast to it, although the elongated eye and high cheekbone were unable to overcome the over-all roundness of her features. Her fine olive skin required no make-up but she set it off with a brush of red-violet lipstick. She dung to Langley’s arm while Stephen stood in the doorway looking at them, his bearded face impassive.

Hello, Stephen, said Langley. His voice carried a note of cheer that was, at this particular moment, properly rather than improperly false. We hoped we’d find you in.

I’d think that, said Stephen. Else why would you come?

Of course, said Langley. What I mean is, we didn’t see your light until we were halfway down the path. We thought we might have missed you.

But as you see, you didn’t. Won’t you come in? He stepped back to let them enter, annoyed at his inability to tell them he’d rather be alone. His attempts to disengage himself from the demands and importunities of others always failed; he couldn’t bring himself to say exactly what was in his mind and so often ended up by being merely rude or sulky.

‘Thanks, said Langley easily, ushering Florence into the house ahead of him. We didn’t come to stay. We were thinking you’d be here alone and forget to eat anything. We want you to come over for dinner.

Please come, Stephen, said Florence, as though sensing a refusal. I know you can’t feel much like a social evening, but we want you to come very much.

He couldn’t tell from her tone whether she wanted him to come for his own benefit or for theirs. They were apt to enjoy their spirit of benevolence more than he could enjoy the dinner. I hadn’t planned on going out, he said.

Be good for you, said Langley. Take your mind off things. We owe you so much, Stephen. The town owes you so much. We want to do what we can.

The town owes me nothing, said Stephen. I just happen to live here, that’s all. I could live any other place.

I know you could, Langley agreed quickly. But you’re here. It’s a small community and you’re one of us. I’m not going to let you go through this thing alone.

No, said Stephen, smiling at the two of them. No, you couldn’t do that.

Florence was returning his smile a little uncertainly, her head tilted a bit to one side, and he knew that her smile meant she was understanding him and forgiving him for being rude. We’ll have a quiet evening, she said. Just dinner, and perhaps some music afterward.

People often played records for him when he went out. He’d decided it must be because of his beard. As a matter of fact, he didn’t like music; it made him fidgety and nervous.

What time are you having dinner?

We’ll eat about seven, but why don’t you come with us now? ‘It’s hardly six yet. I can walk over later."

Come along now, said Langley. We can talk until dinner’s ready.

I’ll have to change first, said Stephen.

No need to worry about a thing like that, said Langley. Not at a time like this.

He has to keep harping on it, thought Stephen. Langley could at times be sensitive enough to the feelings of others; he had often steered a conversational course through a maze of subjects without either slighting or arousing the prejudices of his audience. His failure to appreciate Stephen’s feelings could be attributed only partially to the opposite viewpoints of the two men. He was nervous about something else, and Stephen decided he must be remembering the night Ellen had spent in jail by his orders.

I’ll change first, said Stephen. Just make yourselves comfortable for a few minutes.

He left Langley sitting in the chair by the fireplace, loading his pipe. Florence leaned back in the corner of the couch. The couch was covered with a heavy quilted spread the color of crushed raspberries, which did pleasant things to her dark hair and olive skin. Some potted philodendrons winding among the crevices of the stone wall behind her gave her a frame of big drooping leaves, reminding Stephen of a primitive painting. The association annoyed him, particularly since he felt Florence must have thought of it before selecting the couch to sit in. He retreated to the bedroom to change.

Nothing was wrong with the suit he was wearing except that he’d worn it to the funeral and wanted to be out of it. He wondered what Langley’s reaction would be if he were to reappear wearing his usual blue jeans and a plaid wool shirt, but again he lacked the courage to defy convention entirely and compromised with a pair of gray slacks and a tweed jacket.

Back in the living room he found Langley still by the fire, but Florence was kneeling on the couch examining an oil painting that hung on the wall above. The picture was one of Viney Richards’, who had spent the night in jail with Ellen. Stephen wondered if Langley had apologized to Viney as he had to Ellen.

All set? said Langley, coming to his feet.

I think so, said Stephen. But there’s no hurry. Why don’t we have a drink first? He saw an expression of surprise cross Langley’s face and guessed that to Langley a drink meant levity. And this was no time for levity. Then his expression changed and Langley nodded solemnly.

Fine. Just the thing.

Stephen smiled. Langley had an amazing facility for fitting any event, no matter how trivial, into his pattern of propriety. Had he been the one to offer the drink and had Stephen refused, he’d have understood the refusal in exactly the same terms as he now understood Stephen’s suggestion. Stephen enjoyed this analytical exercise; it gave him a sense of command over the situation. He got the bottle from the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink and set it on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room.

Water or soda? They both took soda, and Stephen took his with a lump of ice. He made only the one round. Langley would now have no scruples against suggesting a few drinks before dinner, and that was the assurance Stephen wanted. He couldn’t bear the thought of several hours with the Britons without the assistance of alcohol.

They left the house and walked along the damp flagstones, the mirror plants shedding water on them as they were brushed against. The mist was low along the ground and thin above their heads so that the tall pines stood on invisible stems, looming down at them from a gray sky. The path curved out to the road where Langley’s car was parked.

We can all ride in front, he said. He put Florence in the middle, closed the door on Stephen, and went around and got under the wheel. The mist diffused the headlights so that he had to drive slowly over the bumpy road. The citizens of Blake were opposed to such innovations as sidewalks and pavement, preferring to put their money into good houses and shrubbery. Even the trees growing in the middle of the streets were protected. Stephen felt the fingers of Florence’s gloved hand entwine with his. A gesture of sympathy, he surmised.

She said, How long have you been here now, Stephen?

Six years. I came as soon as I was out of the Army.

Why would you pick a place like Blake? So remote for a man of your interests.

He laughed shortly. After the war, that’s what I wanted. But I saw it a few years earlier. For a while I was stationed at Camp Windham, down the coast, and came here on a weekend pass. How long ago that seemed now. Well it was long ago: nine years. Almost a fourth of his life. But the war was like a mountain: you kept moving away from it, yet whenever you looked back, there it was, towering against the sky and still filling up the whole of one’s past. I liked Blake, he said. It seemed to have a timeless quality about it, something that wouldn’t change. Other places I’d been were full of a kind of nameless fear, and I thought Blake had escaped it.

He’d been wrong about that. Even in the sleepy little town of Blake, perched on its sea cliff, protected by Point Joy on the north and Point Despair on the south and with the San Flavian mountains ringing it around, fear had crept in. Nor had the presence of the Larkin Marine Laboratory, with its staff of scientists, been able to dispel the fear. Stupid fear, stupid fearful people. Weird craft at seal...

Neither Florence nor Langley encouraged any further comment on the subject. Either they had missed his point or they didn’t want to discuss it.

Has the town itself changed much? asked Florence.

You’ve lived here longer than I have, said Stephen. You should know.

Well, yes, she said. But I just wondered what your opinion was.

He decided she was just making conversation. ‘It has changed like everything else," he said, but he was still thinking of the fear. Sometimes he wondered if he were the only one aware of it. Others acted upon it without seeming to know what motivated them. Langley had managed to externalize it completely, blaming it upon a material object—that weird craft again. And perhaps that was the healthy attitude. A fear was rational as long as you could find something to be afraid of; otherwise it was nothing but a creeping paralysis of the mind. Except that if you were to be rational, the thing you feared must be rational also.

He recalled himself to the world of particulars. More people, he said, answering her question. And now that the military reserve has been made permanent, there are about as many uniforms as there were during the war. Even when I first came back, I couldn’t find a place to rent. That’s why I bought my lot in the woods and put up the shack.

I wouldn’t call it a shack, said Langley. It’s a very attractive place. His own house was new and modern, capping a hill south of town. Because he was proud of it and wanted to hear nice things said about it, he was careful to say nice things about other people’s houses.

It was a shack to begin with, said Stephen. I built it out of driftwood and any old boards I could lay my hands on. The newspaper called it a shack.

No! said Langley, disbelievingly. "You don’t mean The Crier said that?"

"It was The Crier, said Stephen. In an editorial about me. It viewed with alarm the post-war riffraff coming into Blake and throwing up shacks on its outskirts."

I can’t believe it, said Langley. Jim Singleton wouldn’t put a thing like that in his paper. Not about a man like you. Did it mention you by name?

I think not, said Stephen.

Then of course he couldn’t have been referring to you, Langley said. After all, there were other shacks. I mean there were places that might justify such an editorial. He might have meant— He broke off, sensing he’d taken the wrong track.

No, said Stephen. Viney Richards hadn’t arrived in Blake yet, if that’s what you were thinking. I was the only post-war riffraff throwing up a shack at the time. So it had to be me. Besides, Viney Richards bought a shack that already existed. He was suddenly enjoying the conversation.

Well, said Langley, and then laughed with sincere amusement. All that happened a long time ago. You weren’t married then, and no one knew you very well.

And since he didn’t know me very well, he had the right to print anything he pleased about me?

Langley laughed again. Come now, Stephen, you wouldn’t hold a thing like that against Singleton after all this time. Why don’t you remind him of it someday? He’d get a big laugh out of it. Jim’s a fine fellow, and I still think you might find he wasn’t referring to you at all.

Oh, he had reasons, said Stephen with matter-of-fact innocence. After all, I must have been a disreputable character then. There was no water in my shack, you know. I had to carry it from town, which was tedious. So I didn’t bathe often and I stopped shaving. That’s when I grew my beard. My clothes were worn out and I suppose I stunk. But it was a way to make my 52-20 last three years instead of one, and time was what I wanted.

It must be fun looking back on those days now, said Langley, carefully refusing to discuss Stephen’s former condition. A little hardship always makes success seem more valuable. And no one could call your house a shack now. A little unconventional, perhaps, but I happen to like that myself.

Stephen let the subject drop, and they drove on in silence. He could still feel the pressure of Florence’s hand in his. She refused to be insulted by his reminder that he hadn’t always been accepted by the community, refused even to acknowledge that he’d been attempting to insult them. His aimless attempts to punish anyone and everyone in the outside world never seemed quite to reach their mark.

Langley turned the car into a long drive curving upward along the contour of the hill to the house, a low spreading structure of brick and redwood fitting the convexity of the hilltop like an overturned saucer. Surrounding it were brick terraces cut at intervals by brick walls so that any sunny day one could find a place outside free from wind. Big windows in the living room looked one way toward Point Joy and the other way up Whistle Creek Valley.

Langley stopped the car at the edge of the front terrace and they got out. A floodlight hidden under the wide eaves made the wet bricks glow as they crossed them to the entrance. They went down the hallway to a living room that reminded Stephen of the lounge of an expensive club. A thick rush mat of woven squares covered the floor. The furniture was sparkling new and made of spliced bamboo with the cushions upholstered in magenta and chartreuse. Draperies of the same colors were drawn across the broad windows. It was a bright sterile room that needed a crowd of people to bring it to life. Three people weren’t enough. It was empty before they came in and seemed to stay empty afterward.

You men relax, said Florence with a smile, while I go get things organized. She left them together and went back down the hallway tugging off her gloves. Langley took Stephens arm.

I don’t believe you’ve seen our new house yet, Stephen.

No, this is the first time I’ve been here.

I’ll show you around after a while. We’re quite proud of it. Needs some planting outside yet, but the interior is all finished except for the nicks and scratches we’ll add ourselves. You might give me some ideas for flowers. But we can talk about that later. Sit down, old man. Help yourself to a cigar from the box there.

Stephen sat down and took out a pack of cigarettes. Thanks, he said.

Langley was a conscientious host and enjoyed playing the role. He saw that Stephen had an ashtray handy, shifted the lamp behind the chair so that the light didn’t fall on Stephen’s face, and then put a match to the paper beneath the logs in the fireplace. He stood on the hearth,