Ernest and Martin walked down the drive together, without speaking. At the end of the drive an irresistible something made Ernest glance back.
Amy was standing alone at the top of the rise, watching them go. She was only a dim pale shadow, quiet and lonely. Seeing her, the old sick pain tore its way through Ernest, and he stopped abruptly. Martin walked on a few steps, then turned and waited, curiously.
For a long, a very long moment, Ernest looked up at Amy and she looked down at him. The trees and the grass had faded almost into obscurity about her; she was a ghost in the gathering darkness. But behind her the house had come to life, its windows shining, its walls beginning to shimmer in rising moonlight. And Amy’s figure faded into the dusk.
By a sheer and terrific effort of his will, Ernest lifted his eyes from that silent shadow under the trees, and fixed them on the house. And as he willed himself to look, the pain left him, and he stared at the house, not as an exile, leaving never to return, but as one who expects to come back soon, in triumph.
CHAPTER XXV
In September, Ernest Barbour married May Sessions. It was an extremely “fashionable” wedding, due to May’s dimpled insistence. Her friends from New York and Philadelphia trooped into Windsor like a flock of noisy and colorful birds of passage, making the more sedate and conservative Oldtowners appear very dull and drab by contrast. Everything was very lavish and gay, rich and expensive. The month was still warm, golden with early autumn, exactly right for lawn fetes and dances, lanterns and long tables heaped with dainties. May, in a wedding dress of old ivory satin, countless yards and yards of it over the new enormous hoops, was, everyone said, a beautiful bride. Her veil, of French hand-made lace, was like a large cloud over and about her; her round gay face, so bright and vivid, shone through it like a rosy moon. She wore her cousin’s gift, a string of delicate and exquisitely matched pearls, and her bridegroom’s gift, a bracelet that was a thin hoop of icy diamond fire. Everyone spoke of her vivacity and laughter, her untiring pleasure in everything, her happiness and effervescence. She seemed to bubble, to bounce, to run and laugh constantly. There was no doubt as to her happiness and even joy, and her passionate love for her husband. As for Ernest, he seemed to have thawed and relaxed from a grim and formidable human machine to a young man who laughed almost with ease, joked with comparative strangers, and appeared quite the fond bridegroom. At any rate he eyed May with affectionate and indulgent smiles, seemed grateful for her ability to make him laugh, and showed her every consideration and kindness. Despite himself, he was caught up into the gaiety of the occasion; also, having succeeded again, his air was touched with that of a conqueror. For, not only had he married the Sessions heiress, but he had secured a very important military contract from the War Department. Only Gregory Sessions knew what craft and bullying, determination and sweat, none too subtle threats and hints, pressure and tenacity, Ernest had brought to bear on the National Powder Company, which was a group of simple and honorable old men who had nothing but the weak shield of their integrity to defend themselves against these implacable weapons. And only Gregory knew the part of Nicholas Sessions in this.
At any rate, after five agonizing weeks, an agreement was signed between the National Powder Company and Barbour & Bouchard, for the consideration of one hundred thousand dollars, whereby the National Powder Company undertook not to solicit military business, Barbour & Bouchard to turn over to them a certain per cent, possibly twenty per cent, of the military business that Barbour & Bouchard obtained. But even the innocent officers of the National Powder Company knew that it was only a matter of time until Barbour & Bouchard would absorb them completely.
Amy Drumhill, in turquoise silk and ivory lace, was her cousin’s only attendant. Something softly vital and eager, Gregory noticed, had gone forever from Amy’s gentle face, but these had been replaced by a certain serenity and contentment which puzzled him. At any rate, her color had returned, and she seemed to enjoy the wedding and its festivities. Martin, after strenuous pressure had been exerted on him by his parents, acted as his brother’s best man.
Hilda was overcome and subdued by all the magnificence of this wedding; the bride, though all that was affectionate and kind, did not win her peasant confidence. Ernest had bought her endless yards of mauve silk in Philadelphia, a fine rich quality she had never suspected existed, but she had had it made up into a gown by a local dressmaker, and the result, though impressive, was of a mode at least five years old. Her buxom and middle-aged figure looked, Ernest thought irritably, “stuffed,” and her color was too florid and coarse for the delicate color. For the first time in his life he was ashamed of his mother, who was unaffectedly what she was in the midst of the elegance of the other ladies: a hearty and uncertain and humble creature terrified by her betters.
Joseph, darkly feverish and full of sullen pride, was obviously a very sick man, almost emaciated, his eyes sunken and burning with his obscure disease. But his slight and upright figure was fine, even elegant, in its sleek black broadcloth, and his thick and vital hair was almost completely gray. He was, he said with a glower, not afraid of these “blasted snobs,” but he was wretchedly uneasy. Despite their estrangement, Ernest was proud of him; he would have given a great deal to have been at peace with his father. But there was no approaching him. Sometimes he looked at his elder son with something hideously resembling hatred.
Beautiful little Dorcas, astonishingly like her brother Martin, was May’s flower girl. Everyone exclaimed over her beauty, the young ladies affectionately, the young gentlemen banteringly. Her long, pale gold hair hung in silver-touched ripples over her white muslin dress, almost down to her knees. She had the face of an exquisite, rather serious wax doll; it had a dreaming, unawakened quality that was infinitely touching. She endured the lavish petting she received in an agony of shyness, clinging to Martin whenever she could, and when he was not about, turning to Eugene Bouchard, whose large and awkward simplicity and gentleness toward young things had gained her confidence. He was never bullying or rough to Dorcas, and always subdued his rather grating voice when he spoke to her. Raoul, elegant and happily at ease with the grace of a French courtier, charmed all the ladies, who swore he broke their hearts, flirted, drank, was indolently and delicately impertinent, and squired Florabelle Barbour, home from boarding school. There were several points of resemblance between the pert and vain and pretty young girl and the mocking, egotistic and entrancing bride, and they loved each other from the start.
Ernest, busily engaged in the complexities of his new undertakings, could spare only two weeks for a honeymoon. They went to New York. Upon their return, they occupied large and renovated apartments in the Sessions house. May’s bedroom, almost octagon-shaped, with many windows, had gray painted walls, silken curtains of old rose, and a rose-hued carpet. Gilded mirrors and gilded candle sconces added brightness to the room. She had a lounge of gray-brocaded satin, and a multitude of little gilt chairs upholstered in satin damask colored yellow, pink and silver. Her huge bed was draped and canopied in heavy lace. Ernest’s room was all dark mahogany, crimson and dim blue, the windows heavily draped with fringed curtains. Their sitting room was full of velvet, heavy chairs with involuted curving arms, the front legs painted black and mounted with small bronze rosettes or ormolu, and equipped with rose cushions tufted with buttons. The great fireplace, of black-veined marble, was looped with red velvet and ball fringe. May acquired a new personal maid, and insisted that Ernest have a valet.
Ernest was very pleased with his bride. She amused him, made him feel indulgent and constantly on the verge of laughter. When he returned home at night, her gaiety and pretty coaxing ways, her witticisms, tender solicitude, hurryings to and fro to minister to him, diverted and soothed him. She seemed full of variety, and while she was often pettish and a little sulky, she never whined or nagged, but could spring from her moods to laughter and teasing. He had discovered that in spite of her real intelligence and sophistication, she was curiously innocent,
and he enjoyed teaching her. He had only hoped that in marrying the Sessions heiress she would not bore him; to have her amuse him, to have her make him fond of her, was more than he had ever hoped for. And fond of her he was. He even liked her feminine bullying; he prepared to be very content, for not only was his marriage successful but his business affairs were progressing satisfactorily.
As he came home very late at night, partly by design in order to avoid the first awkwardness of living in the same house with Gregory and Amy, he ate most of his meals with May in their sitting room. The evenings were getting chilly, and it was infinitely delightful to him to sit at a dainty table shining with white linen and silver before a great red fire, and sip wine and coffee after a rich meal. May, opposite him in a rose velvet and lace peignoir, her black eyes twinkling, her dark red curls bobbing about her cheeks of pink damask, never seemed so inviting, so lovely. She diverted him with vivacious tales, waited on him as a mother waits on her child. When she looked at him her eyes shone with a steady and lambent light. Sometimes her love for him embarrassed him, made him feel uneasy.
Once a week he ate the evening meal with his parents in Newtown. In contrast with the luxury and fine living of his new home, his old home looked ugly and heavy to him, utterly without taste and dignity. He nagged Hilda constantly about the hideous furniture, the clashing of colors, the crowded living room, the glaring wallpapers and violent rugs, and the knick-knacks that gave an air of disorder to every corner. Even when Joseph, who had at first listened with a disagreeable smile to this haggling, burst into a fury on one particular night, it did not quiet Ernest. As for Hilda, she alternately stormed, jeered, became elaborately sarcastic, and wept.
Ernest was beginning to take his family very seriously, for he was ashamed of the house they lived in, the simplicity of their daily life, their disregard for elegant niceties, their lower middle-class lack of affectation. Dorcas, however, was a growing pleasure to him. He preferred the more voluble and lively Florabelle, who was fond of him, but Dorcas’ beauty affected him to the point of tenderness. He was solicitous about her education, personally choosing her governess; he brought her yards of delicate velvets and laces and silks from New York, and, at Christmas, gave her a beautiful white ermine cape and hood. “Damned if he doesn’t act as if he’s the father of this family!” Joseph growled one night to his wife. But Hilda was pleased and touched at Ernest’s serious attempts to mould and guide his people, however he irritated her. She wore the tasteful shawls of his choosing, was proud of the garnet necklace he bought her, rubbed perfumed beeswax on her hands because he complained of their red coarseness, tried to infuse a little refinement in her ready and forthright speech. But she would not change one thing in her house, nor forego her kitchen, where she supervised and scolded the kitchen maid with something of her old vigor. “Now, laddie,” she said once to her older son, “you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, so you’d best leave me be.”
One source of secret satisfaction to Ernest was a change in Martin. Hilda reported that Martin did not go to the Bouchards’ nearly so much, and that when he did he returned earlier and seemed agitated and vaguely distressed. He began to take interest in his clothing, admired Ernest’s new suits, seemed almost anxious to please his brother, discussed cravats with him very seriously, even accompanied him to Philadelphia upon one occasion to buy a coat and some shirts and two or three hats. When Ernest reported the latest styles, Martin showed an almost amusing intensity of interest. Dressing better, he was actually theatrically handsome; his posture improved, and his natural grace and ease of movement were intensified. He talked more pleasantly, seemed less afraid of everything, even accepted invitations to parties at the homes of the “snobs” in Oldtown. Ernest, surprised and pleased, curbed his tongue, made himself as agreeable as possible, and told himself that he’d make something of Martin yet! He was flattered and touched when Martin showed pleasure at being invited to dinner at the Sessions house; he was more pleased when Martin formed the habit of dropping in unexpectedly, and joining Ernest and May, Gregory and Amy, in the family drawing room. “He’s almost human, after all,” he said to May one time. May admired Martin’s good looks, was not above flirting with him in a sisterly and affectionate way, not above bullying him amusingly. Only she and Gregory suspected the reason for Martin’s change, and she had her reasons for not enlightening her husband as yet. She cultivated her brother-in-law, put him at ease, tormented him until he laughed in spite of himself, and tried to show him, subtly, that life could be very pleasant. The climax came when Hilda reported that he had demanded comfortable furniture and a rug for his room.
It would have pleased Ernest had Gregory found another home for himself and Amy, and left him in complete possession. But even he had to admit that this was unfair. It was he who was the stranger; however, he told himself that the house would belong to May in the future. His contempt and dislike for Gregory were increasing; he found that it was only by a violent effort of his will that he could control himself now in the face of Gregory’s silent and sardonic laughter, his lifted eyebrows, his ironical smiles, his knowing glances. The young man was earnest and sober, little given to humor, and Gregory’s satire, his pungent and malicious witticisms, his pitiless if elegant jeers, antagonized him. He always felt at a disadvantage before this slim and steely wit, this adroit mental stepping, these stinging little rips in his vanity. Moreover, he suspected that Gregory disliked him as much as he disliked Gregory, and this mutual knowledge did not add to the ease of the Sunday dinner table, where the family met in its entirety, and of which Martin was now a frequent member. Gregory, however, was pleased at the arrangement; he would not have had it otherwise. He could thus keep avidly in touch with the developments in the affairs of Barbour & Bouchard; it gave him a sensuous thrill to hear of new orders, higher prices, rising stock prices. Moreover, life with Amy had been a little dull; May was a constant delight and comfort. She had brought life and laughter to the house, and both of these Gregory loved.
Absorbed in the many aspects of his life, which was full of clamor and excitements, pleasures and mirth, conjugal titillations, increasing wealth, Ernest had little time to think of Amy, or to indulge in the stabs of pain one knew would come to him if he stopped to think. When he sat opposite her at Sunday dinner, or occasionally at dinner through the week, or Sunday breakfast, he forced himself to look at her as from a great distance, resolutely marching to and fro like a sergeant before his private line of thoughts, keeping them in line, disciplining them. Each time a thought writhed or groaned, he tramped it down, shouted at it, stopped its mutterings with the iron blow of his will. He was done with all that; he had a pretty wife of whom he was truly fond, and he had the world besides. He succeeded so well that sometimes weeks on end would pass without him giving her more than a casual thought, even on Sundays; he even criticized her sincerely to May because of her frequent languors and apparent lack of interest in important things. “Of course, if she does not take care, she will be an old maid, and that will be an unfortunate thing for others, as well as for herself,” he said once to May. “She doesn’t seem at all interested in young men.”
May had smiled at this, had looked at him with covert sharpness. She was too astute to be deceived, and she knew that Ernest was not safe yet. When she criticized Amy to him, she did it delicately, and with expressions of affection and concern for the girl. She professed to worry about her lack of beaux, confided to her husband that she was afraid that poor Amy did not attract gentlemen. These excessively refined and delicate girls rarely did. They were, said May daringly, a little too female. A woman must have just the littlest dash of masculinity to appeal to men, a little meeting them on their own ground before a timid and pretty flight back into femininity. The result was that Ernest was gradually becoming annoyed with his wife’s cousin, found her gentleness and silences, her sweetness and light voice, irritating. It was an obscure irritation, a sort of goad, and even May was not astute enough to guess the
reason. When once Ernest burst out in a sort of frenzied annoyance to the effect that he wished Amy would get married and “clear out,” May felt only a glow of pleasure and security and contentment.
Everything was going splendidly, with the long, high and steady sweep of the lives of the triumphant, until one brilliantly icy and snowbound day in March.
CHAPTER XXVI
It was an exceptionally lovely morning. The snowfalls had been heavy lately. Through the long and latticed windows of the dining room, draped in their rich crimson velvet, one could look out into the garden, an enchantment of trees blazing with crystal, bushes filigreed mounds of white, black sparrows fluttering above the ice-filled bird-baths, long and undulating stretches of pure and burning whiteness. The sky was dark blue and dazzling, polished by the wind, and the sun poured out of it in a flood of colorless radiance.
Never had Ernest felt so alive and happy as he did this morning, looking at the cold and frozen gardens from the security of this warm, firelit and pleasant room. The white linen, the shining silver, the steaming coffee, the syrup-soaked flapjacks, the little spicy sausages simmering in hot gravy, the thick cream and yellow butter, the tall mounds of biscuits, the platters of thinly sliced ham, all seemed to him to be blissfully perfect. He shook out the huge folds of his napkin, smiled contentedly at Gregory, pleasantly at Amy, fondly at his wife. Everything seemed bathed and outlined in light; everything was just as it should be. He could have sung in his happiness and delight. He even made a pleasant remark to the butler as the latter passed him ham and biscuits, though as a rule he disliked the old man, whom he suspected of patronizing him as the son of an ex-servant.
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