“Do you think so?” he asked humbly and doubtfully, but inwardly gratified. How easily women could be swayed through vanity or love! But through love more than through vanity. One had only to appeal to their affections, their tenderness, their mercy, and the creatures ran to floods of warm water. Precious fools!
It was finally arranged that Gregory should write a note to Ernest inviting him on the evening of June 21st to attend a dinner in honor of Senator Nicholas Sessions. While writing the note, and hoping that it was as cool and formal as possible, Gregory, on an impulse, suggested that Ernest also bring his brother, Martin. This addition, he believed, made the note more impersonal. He thought about Martin Barbour as he folded the note and rang for his butler’s young son. He had met Martin many times, had talked to him briefly and pleasantly. He recalled the young man’s excessive and almost womanish good looks, the clear and straightforward blue eyes. (No murkiness, there!) A strange pair, those brothers. He intrigued Gregory, who discerned in him the voice, the features, the dignity, the manner and bearing of a gentleman. He spoke with pride and a touch of hauteur, was courteous but without intimacy. There was a curious detachment about him, a dreamlike quality, very irritating, Gregory guessed with amusement, to one of Ernest’s exigency. At times, he was stony-faced, wore an air of deliberate imperviousness. Yes, a very odd and irritating young man. Familiar of a cripple. Probably lived in a world of roses and enchantment and moonlight and impossible gossamer creatures. Gregory shrugged, sealed the note. He enjoyed odd people, for he detested mankind and liked to laugh at it.
CHAPTER XXIII
When Ernest received the note in his office, he turned it over and over in his hands, absentmindedly. So the old boy decided to call quits for his own advantage, he thought. He threw the note from him, contemptuously, shrugging. He felt very tired these days, full of an unemotional heaviness. For a long time he stared at the note, as it hung on the edge of his desk; he slowly rubbed his face with his hands. Then he recalled something, and smiled grimly. He picked up the note and went to the door of Martin’s small office and opened it. The evening was hot and dim, presaging a storm, and a lamp stood on the plain table where Martin worked at his books. The dull yellow light fell on his bent head and grave face and steadily moving hand. He glanced up, when he became aware of his brother, and waited, not speaking.
Ernest tossed the note to him, smiling again. Martin looked at it suspiciously, not picking it up, as though it might contain something hurtful, having come from his brother’s hand. A glimmer of amusement flickered across Ernest’s impassive face. Of course, he thought, he will refuse. But I wonder what fantastic excuse he will offer?
Martin read the note thoughtfully. Then he glanced at Ernest; an unusual animation expressed itself on his features. “Isn’t Senator Sessions the great Abolitionist? Didn’t he make that stirring speech in the Senate last session?”
“Yes, I believe he is the one.” Ernest regarded him curiously. “He has no slaves of his own, naturally.”
“Why are you so cynical? Why can’t you believe that persons might be actuated, occasionally, by honorable and kindly motives? Do you believe there is no good in all the world?” Martin’s voice rose to the thin edge of hysteria, and he flung his pen from him with Ernest’s own gesture. He bounded to his feet, ran to the window and stared through it, as though the sight of his brother excited him to intolerable frenzy. He clenched his hands at his side, and to Ernest’s amazement, he trembled.
“You are the damnedest fool, you know,” said Ernest quietly. “Of course I believe there are good and disinterested persons in the world. There are Pa and Ma, for instance—and you—and—oh, countless others, I suppose. I wish you’d stop making me out to be a stage bogeyman,” he added irritably. “I’m not, really. Where you got the daft idea is beyond me. Gad, you’re an ass!” He went toward the door. “You will want me to refuse for you, of course?”
Martin was silent for a few moments. He seemed to be struggling with the vestiges of his former hysteria. Ernest’s irritation rose furiously, and he doubled his fist. What a feckless fool it was, to be sure! Full of womanish vapors and all kinds of nonsense. A fellow couldn’t talk to him without him flying into weird excitements. Martin turned to him just as he was about to leave the room.
“I—I want to go. I want to see Senator Sessions,” he said in a low dull voice, not looking at his brother. Ernest, after his first stare of surprise, went out without comment. He was surprised, once he was in his own room, to discover that he felt nauseated. His tiredness overflowed him; he glanced at his desk with a sudden loathing and distaste. Where was this all getting him? Where was he going? There was his father, who watched every move he made with the darkest and the most ridiculous suspicions. There was his brother, who lived in fantasies and thought him some Popish demon. There was old Armand, who accepted, even sought, intimacies, but gave none himself. Raoul and Eugene—Raoul was a crafty, smiling, indolent fool, and Eugene was too slavish and unquestioning in his admiration. There were others he knew slightly in Windsor, young and greedy men like himself, whom he could not trust, young gallants who chased women and foolish other pleasures, dull and arrogant dolts who sneered at him. There was absolutely no one else. Except Amy.
His feeling of sickness increased. It was as though his will, which had put Amy forever out of his life, was a stone wall against which he, himself, beat his head impotently. The will seemed beyond him, outside him. He could see it in his mind’s eye, impervious and unbreakable. Someone came into the room. It was Eugene, carrying a pistol.
“Ernest! Look at this! See, this little trigger—this hook! I’ve got the pistol loaded: I pull back this little catch. Try it! There! You see, it won’t fire! And so simple, too, not like the safety catches Colt and the rest have been making. You can see that it is so close to the trigger that it can be flipped off and on almost with a single motion.”
The two young men discussed this latest invention of Eugene’s eagerly. Of course, said Ernest, it was a little too flimsy; it could easily get out of order. The trick was to work it out so that the catch would be firm and strong, yet light, easy of manipulation. Yes, Eugene agreed, his father had said the same thing. It would take some working out. Now, it could be done this way—He talked on, rapt, his long strong finger with its blunted tip pointing and demonstrating. Ernest found himself watching him, almost sadly. Eugene did not as yet interpret his inventions in terms of money. His innate miserliness and cautious frugality had not yet made themselves felt. He was a scientist, in a laboratory. A neophyte in a monastery. One of the (what did Martin call it?), yes, one of the Partners of Death. But a dedicated, serious, curiously innocent young partner. He turned out his inventions as a bee made honey—impersonally, industriously. He was sturdy, rather stocky, not unhandsome, a little grim and heavily grave, but virile. Probably a virgin, too, thought Ernest. There was something chaste about him, in spite of his strength and his infrequently bullying manner with others. There was also about him the simplicity and single-mindedness of the peasant.
“We ought to be hearing from Raoul, soon,” said Ernest, as Eugene finished speaking. “Three hundred men for us this time, Eugene! We’ve got to get the Kinsolving works under way. We can’t forget those inevitable notes, you know.”
“My father was saying he hoped we had not bitten off more than we can chew,” said Eugene. But his voice was not uneasy. He was like a child when he spoke of such matters. “But no matter; you, you cannot fail, my Ernest.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Ernest, obscurely annoyed. “I’m only human, you know. Why shouldn’t I fail as well as better men?”
Eugene smiled with affectionate cunning. He tapped Ernest on his arm with his finger. “Do you know what you are, my Ernest? Destiny. You, and maybe a few others, in this grand country. There is destiny in you. Yes, destiny. This is a country for destinies, like yours. That is why you cannot fail.”
“You French!” grumbled Ernest, as they went togethe
r into the factory. “The most fanciful race alive. That’s why you stomached a Napoleon as long as you did. He appealed to the actor in you. And speaking of fancies reminds me: what the devil has your Jacques done to my brother, Martin? He always did have a white liver and womanish ways, but he’s gone clean daft, now. Has Jacques been telling him some terrible Popish fairy tales?”
Eugene’s bland and friendly expression disappeared. He glanced at Ernest with a furtive coldness. “Of course, you English could not understand Jacques,” he said stiffly. “Jacques is a saint. It is well for your brother that he knows Jacques. Jacques has the influence of heaven in him; I have never heard him utter a hard word or say a cruel thing. To know him is to know one of God’s own angels. If Martin’s spirit has been impressed by him, it is because God has blessed him.”
“There is something here I don’t quite understand,” thought Ernest. “You can go only so far with these people, and then you see they are unfriendly strangers at heart, if you try to go all the way. There is no trusting or understanding them.”
“There is no trusting or understanding them,” thought Eugene. “They make light of the most sacred things, and become solemn over trifles that do not matter.”
Joseph, irritably supervising the sluggish work of the Magyar laborers in the powder room, glanced with some sullenness at his son. “I tell you, I can’t stand these fellows. They make my gorge rise. Lazy brutes. Hell, though, it’s not their fault; it’s ours. Yours. For bringing them here.”
“Now what’s the matter?” asked Ernest good-naturedly. He turned with a frown and sharp gesture to the laborers, who suddenly acquired speed. “You don’t step on them, Pa. They don’t understand kindness. They’ve been clouted all their lives and kicked in the breeches. Come on, there, you, you big fellow with the red hair! We haven’t all day. Come, come on!” His voice crackled like a whip, and the laborers began to roll barrels and shovel the acrid gray powder with zeal. “There, Pa, that’s how to do it.”
“I’m not a—a Simon Legree,” growled Joseph.
Ernest laughed. “So you’ve been reading that book of Martin’s, eh? Damned rot, that’s what it is. Written by a sentimental old fool who probably never saw a blackamoor in her life.”
“You’re a hard devil,” said his father, with an odd glance at him.
Ernest went in search of Armand. The Frenchman seemed a little somber. He filled his pipe while Ernest discussed some matters, and then he said, fixing his small bright eyes intently upon him: “Look you, my Ernest, unless we secure those military contracts you have spoken of, we are quite ruined. I am not certain that it was wise to accede to your wish to buy the Kinsolving works. As it stands now, it is a—a white elephant on our hands. Nothing is being produced there, for you refuse to hire American workmen, and those four foremen you have retained are standing idle, waiting for supplies and men.”
“Within a month we shall have three hundred men, Armand. Big, powerful devils. The foremen understand foreign labor. The supplies have been ordered. In the meantime, the factory is being put to rights, the machinery being repaired. Within two months we shall be running day and night. I am positive of this. As for the military contracts: I tell you, we shall have them before the summer is over. Tomorrow, Sunday, I am invited to meet Senator Sessions.”
“I hope your golden hopes are justified,” said Armand, shrugging. “I have stood with you at all times, my young friend, even when my better judgment shook its head. I must admit you were right. But you cannot always be right. Everything I have is in this work. I have no money besides. If we sink, go into bankruptcy, I am a ruined man.”
“We shall not lose,” said Ernest. He walked away. “I shall not lose,” he added to himself. But there was no ease in his thoughts. His father was obviously ill; his fevered flesh seemed to be consuming itself, brightening his eye, making the bones ridge themselves visibly under his skin. He would not rest, however, and Ernest, knowing his suspicions of him, dared not suggest that he rest. And the military contracts: he had to have them, that was all. Without them, he knew only too well, they were, as Armand had said, “quite ruined.”
Damn it, everyone leaned on him. He was sick of it.
But tomorrow he would meet Senator Sessions at last. The military contract must be obtained. There could be no ifs or whens about it: it must be obtained. He would not allow himself to think of any alternative. It was victory or ruin.
It was characteristic of him that, concentrating on the business he must do the next day, he entirely forgot Amy and the pain it would cause him to see her once more. He forgot Amy, indeed. But he did not forget what he must do, and he did not forget May Sessions.
CHAPTER XXIV
When Ernest and Martin arrived at the Sessions house the next day, they found the grounds filled with laughing and chattering groups of strangers.
It had been very hot lately, but today was balmy and soft. The air seemed to have a material quality like silk, and the breeze appeared to move it visibly. The great trees sprayed gigantic green fountains against an intensely blue sky. The leaves darted and leapt and glittered in a rain of light. Cloud shadows rippled over the broad and sloping lawns; the wind shook the flowers in their beds, swirled the many-colored skirts of the women, so that they looked like delicate tops, bent back the broad-brimmed straw hats and showed dozens of pretty faces and tossing ringlets. The strong gray-stone house was alternately sparkling with speckled sunlight or drenched in rushing shadow. The grass turned silver as it bent, became vivid green as it sprang upright. Everything shone, danced, shook, sparkled, quivered with color, laughed, in a day that ran and warmed and trembled with radiance.
The two collies came barking and tumbling to meet them. Ernest had so far won their tolerance that they greeted him with pleasant reserve. Turning to Martin, however, they joyously flung themselves upon him, worrying his boots, licking his hands, laughing at him with their soft brown eyes. He was awkward with most animals, so spoke to them with an amusing courtesy, which delighted them. Their enthusiasm embarrassed him; he knew nothing about dogs. But, evidently, they knew him. They adopted him, fought for his attention fondly, staged sham battles for his mirth as they preceded him up the broad pathway. “The dogs,” said Ernest with a wry amusement, “seem to like you, Martin.”
Martin, who disliked and feared strangers, was chilly with terror. He marched straight ahead, not glancing at the hilarious groups under the trees, but watching them furtively out of the corner of his eye. His pale face was flushed; he kept his head bent. This social excursion was dreadful to him. In all the city he knew only the Bouchard family well. For others he had a stony reserve and suspicious fear that antagonized them.
The delusion he had of his brother made him feel amazement that certain people hailed Ernest with evident pleasure, called laughing remarks to him, promised to speak to him later. He, himself, hurried along, a little ahead of Ernest, fearful that the latter might stop and wholesale introductions ensue. This is something he could have endured only with inward agony. He glanced back at Ernest incredulously. He had more or less vaguely imagined that his brother was always grim, that others regarded him as he himself regarded him. That a woman or two should flash a smile of invitation, a man wave a hand, another call, seemed impossible for him to grasp.
When they had been children together his emotions toward Ernest had been a mixture of distrust, astonishment, respect, shrinking and slight affection. He had avoided clashes, feeling himself both the weaker and the one in the right. Ernest intruded violently upon him by his very presence in the room, injuring the timid feelers of his personality. But in later years his attitude underwent a slight change. His distrust had deepened, his astonishment had given way to bitter expectations of the worst, his respect had disappeared, his shrinking increased, his affection died. He had also developed a hysterical intolerance toward him; he found himself flying into hectic rages at the slightest disagreement, the slightest encounter, with Ernest. At times the hysteria and rage
became aggressive, so that Ernest fell silent before them, even retreated. Martin, the gentle and the kind, was the most astonished and regretful of men at these uncontrollable demonstrations of his unconscious hatred. But they remained, nevertheless.
He was secretly ashamed of the fear he felt as he walked toward the house he had never entered before. He held himself stiffly and ungraciously, so that many a girl and woman, intrigued by the glimpse of his extraordinary good looks, told her neighbor that “that was the most haughty young man!”
In the small and pretty grove to the left of the house tables had been set out, tables stiff with the shiniest of damask linen, centered with bowls of bright flowers, heavy with silver. Servants went to and fro between the house and the tables, carrying covered silver dishes, tureens, platters and cups. Wine pails appeared on the grass at each table. The blowing and speckled shadow of the trees danced on the linen, drew sparks from the silver. Laughter rang over the lawns; girls, fluttering in their billowing yards of crinolined dresses, darted behind trees, pursued by their swains. Under the shade of one tremendous oak the dowagers sat in their mauve and violet and black silks, fanning themselves, smiling benignly at the youth and gaiety about them, gossiping none too kindly behind their black lace fans. From the house, through the open French windows and doors, came the sound of a piano and the voices of a girl and a man in a sentimental duet.
“Lovely house, isn’t it?” asked Ernest, as Martin hesitated at the stone steps. At his question, Martin glanced up, and then over his shoulder. His smile was nervous and artificial. “Yes, it is. I wonder how soon I can see Senator Sessions?”
“Senator Sessions? What on earth do you want to see him about?” Ernest rang the bell; the sound disappeared through the open door into the dim wide coolness of the hall. Martin did not reply. The butler came forward, greeted them ceremoniously, led them toward the second drawing room. Martin’s heart throbbed painfully. Through the drawing-room archway he saw what he thought was a multitude of critical strangers, all waiting with secret smiles to be amused at him. There were, in fact, only about a dozen young people in the room, besides Gregory Sessions and the Senator. A girl was playing the piano: it was Amy; the sun, which poured through the window, bright in her soft brown hair. The girl who was singing was May Sessions, in a green-striped silk, a wreath of jade flowers in her dark-red curls. Beside her sang the youthful tenor, very elegant and sentimental. The other young people sat about on little gilded chairs, flirted, flashed their eyes in the golden dimness, fluttered their fans, whispered extravagant nonsense to each other as the duet pursued its carolling way. Whispering together in a discreet corner sat Gregory and Nicholas Sessions. Catching sight of the new arrivals, Gregory whispered hastily to his brother, and the two men came forward, smiling genially.
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