Ernest had been aghast at Amy’s appearance the last two times they had met. It seemed to him that she had become emaciated to the point of transparency. Almost, he could see the fine thin bones of her face through her pale clear skin and delicate flesh. Her figure, too, had become thin and fragile, but retained outlines of roundness and grace. He looked down into her eyes, so shining-brown, so limpid and steadfast, and he saw the purplish hollows under them. But she had smiled as though she had last seen him yesterday, and her expression, full of courage and fortitude, dared him to pity her. When he took her slender hand he could feel the stiff hard calluses upon it, and the roughness of the skin. Her gown, he noticed, was old-fashioned, and did not have the wide spread of hoop that all the ladies were wearing now; it was of brown wool, and obviously home-made. Yet he thought her more beautiful than ever, the sweetest and loveliest woman he had ever known. Once, he remembered, May had said that she was insipid, and once or twice he had tried to believe it, remembering her quietness and gentleness, her lack of aggressive qualities. But he saw that May had been mistaken, and he had been a fool sneering at sour grapes. For he knew that Amy was a great lady, serene and poised in the midst of intolerable hardship, and remembering her intelligence and insight, he knew that she had never been hypnotized by Martin’s beliefs, that she had never believed in them. She had followed him, sustaining him, knowing that his happiness depended on her acquiescence, and she had loved him enough to let him find peace in his folly.
He remembered all these things about her, and he sighed over and over, until he, himself, heard his sighs and was wryly amused at them. He clasped his hands firmly upon the head of his cane, and said aloud: “Yet, I would do as I did. I would not do it differently if it were given me back to choose.” After a few moments he lifted his cane, and surveyed the knob, which was a round piece of gold hammered into the likeness of a puckish face. He addressed the face ironically: “Am I a liar? For once I don’t know!”
But as the hack began to travel more slowly down a narrow, winding and rutted road, began to lurch and pitch like a small ship at sea, the desolation of the unkempt countryside seemed to creep through the very seams of Ernest’s consciousness. This was a poorer part of the country, with shacks crowding near the road, chicken runs and hog wallows, tipsy fences and wash-lines, screaming children and barking dogs. Slatternly women came to the doors as the hack rumbled past, and a mule, in an ironical spirit, he-hawed after his half-brother, the horse. The autumn sun had gone behind a cloud, and the sky was full of brownish gray mist; the trees were bare, writhing emptily in a sudden wind, and a few red leaves swirled up from the dusty earth and rattled against the windows of the cab. But it was near sunset anyway, and in the west there was a wild and sullen glory of dull scarlet. In the distance, the hills, low and rolling, were mounds of dun-colored fog, turning slowly to copper at the tops under the sunset. The harvest was in, the fields and meadows denuded and brown, blowing with straws.
“What a Godforsaken place!” thought Ernest. He looked about him at the shacks and the occasional child or woman with detestation, forgetting that the desolation and the hopelessness were partly due to the fact that most of the men were gone, and those they had left behind them sick and listless with fear. “How has Amy endured it this long?”
Now they reached a narrower side road, and the hack turned into it reluctantly. All shacks disappeared. On each side of the road stretched the bleakness of dead fields, which ran sluggishly to meet a dead sky. The meadows were not fenced off: there was something prairie-like in these long stretches of unbroken earth, and the rumble of the hack wheels made a hollow echo in the profound cold silence. Then in the distance Ernest saw a group of low buildings, a large building which he guessed was the house, behind it barns and stables, and at a distance of a quarter mile, another but smaller group of buildings.
The hack jogged along, pitching and tossing, so that Ernest gathered a few minor contusions. But now that he saw the place where Amy and her children lived, he began to sweat with agitation and nervousness, and he beat out a tattoo on the floor of the hack with his cane. Once he tapped against the glass to attract the driver’s attention, and shouted: “Faster! Faster!”
A low, broken picket fence surrounded the house, and the gate stood open on rusty hinges. Prepared for something very bad, Ernest was appalled at the true picture. His eye quickly gathered in the frowsy gardens with the long unkempt grass, the darkness of the windows in spite of the twilight, the silence and desolation of the grounds about the house. As over abysses of space lonely cattle lowed mournfully, and a calf bawled from the barns. “Could it be possible that she has already gone?” thought Ernest. He got out of the cab, told the driver to wait, and ran up the dusty path to the door. He stumbled over a child’s shovel and bucket, saw a headless doll in his way, heard the barking of a dog inside the house. It was definitely twilight now, and the whole world was full of gray silence and utter ruin and hopelessness. He knocked savagely upon the door, as though that very act would give life to this lifeless scene. A wind rose with a gale-like force, rattled the windows and the door loudly, swirled dust into his nose and eyes, tore itself through the denuded trees to the right of the house.
Several long moments passed, then from inside the house came the lusty cries of a child, the hushing voice of a woman, then slow footsteps. The door opened a crack; Ernest put his hand against it and thrust it open ruthlessly. The woman fell back with an alarmed and croaking exclamation; he saw she was an old woman, tall and stooping and emaciated, with pale blue eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles. She had evidently just lit a lamp in the room behind her, for it threw a bleak dim light over the shabby furniture and the worn rug.
Ernest glanced briefly about him, missed nothing, then said to the waiting old woman, who was blinking her eyes at him with mingled apprehension and perplexity: “I must see Mrs. Barbour, at once!”
The old woman clasped her hands before her, and she began to weep, silently, bending her head forward upon her chest. Then she closed the door behind Ernest, went to where a few dull coals burnt upon the hearth, and stirred them up. Ernest followed her, striking his legs impatiently with his cane. She looked up at him through the rain of her tears, as he stood beside her. She knelt there upon the hearth in an attitude of utter abandonment to grief and despair.
“Didn’t you know, sir, that Mr. Martin has been killed?” she asked in a guttural voice. “We just got a telegram this morning.” She put her gnarled old hands over her face and sobbed convulsively.
“Yes, I know,” said Ernest, with a forced attempt at patient gentleness. “That is why I have come. Is Amy—is Mrs. Barbour in a condition to see me? Will you please tell her I have come to take her home?”
The woman dried her eyes upon the edge of her apron, began to rise laboriously. Ernest, to his own surprise, found himself helping her, his hand under her elbow. She muttered hoarse thanks, the muscles of her face twisting as she fought for self-control. She remembered social amenities then, and politely offered Ernest a seat.
“It iss not my way, to be so like a child,” she apologized, wringing the fringes of her shawl between her trembling fingers, and looking at him imploringly. “But Mr. Martin, he was so like an angel, so good and kind—It iss more than we can bear. My Carl, he iss gone, too, my son, and there iss only my old husband and myself. But we thought if Mr. Martin was near him, nothing could harm him, God would not let anything harm Carl. And now there iss only that poor lady upstairs, lying on her bed so white and cold and still, like the dead, and the poor children—” She sobbed dryly, pressed her shaking lips together, apologized again.
“It may be she will not see you, sir,” she said deprecatingly. “But, I will see. What iss your name, please?” she asked simply.
Ernest opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had the oddest conviction that if he told his name Amy would not see him. He could not understand how he knew this, but he believed it implicitly. He studied old Mrs. Heckl curiousl
y, for now he knew who she was. It was apparent that she did not know him. He cleared his throat and said: “My name isn’t important. Please tell Mrs. Barbour that her uncle has sent a friend to bring her home, with her children. That will be sufficient.”
Mrs. Heckl’s face flashed into a thin joy. “That will be very good, sir! To take her home, to her friends and her people! That iss where she should be, and not here, with only an old woman to care for her.” Then she shook her head with sudden doubt. “But iss he not there in that house, that man?”
“Who?” Ernest lifted his brows at her and the corner of his lips jerked in spite of himself. The old woman’s cheek had flushed a dull red, and her eyes were flashing; she had clenched her hands in her apron, and the fabric was twisted.
“That man! That wicked man, who was so cruel to Mr. Martin, and to mein Hans and Carl, and all the poor people in his shops! That rich wicked man God will surely find and punish some day!”
Ernest’s expression became bland and smooth; his eye pointed brilliantly as it always did when he felt either hate or derision or contempt.
“Come, come, my good woman, I’m sure Mrs. Barbour would not want you to express your opinion of her relatives to strangers! And now, if you please, I would like you to take my message to her.”
Her color deepened with mortification, but she curtseyed in silence, and left the room. He heard her heavily mounting some stairs in the rear. The clock chimed on the mantelpiece, and a coal dropped.
Then another door opened, there was a babble of childish voices, and three children spilled into the room, a tall boy and girl of about seven, and a child between them, probably not much more than three. They were hauling the baby by its fat short arms, and it was doubling up its knees, so that it could swing over the floor. The girl was scolding the boy, prophesying dire results to something she called the baby’s “sockets,” and he was jeering at her, jerking the baby so that it swung clear of the floor, shrieking with joy in the process.
They did not see Ernest sitting by the fire until they reached the hearth. Then they were so startled that they dropped the baby, who fell with a fat crash and a shout of pain and rage. Quite automatically, not removing her eyes from Ernest, the little girl whisked the baby to its feet, brushed off its rear, pressed its roaring head to her flat childish breast. The little boy stood there on the hearth, his legs apart, his hands on his hips, and merely stared with more impudence and astonishment than fear.
“Who are you?” he demanded loudly, in a fresh boyish voice.
Much amused and interested, Ernest stared back at them.
“Not so fast,” he answered. “First, you must tell me who you are.”
“I guess that’s only polite,” admitted the little girl, when the boy glanced at her for her opinion. “Well, sir,” said the boy, putting his sturdy brown legs still farther apart, and holding his head at a high and cocky angle, “I’m Paul Barbour, and this is my twin, Elsa, and this is our little sister, Lucy, and upstairs in mama’s and papa’s room is our little brother, John Charles. He can’t hardly get around by hisself yet. And,” he added, “who are you, now?”
“I,” smiled Ernest, “am your uncle. Your Uncle Ernest. Ever hear of me?”
Paul frowned, glanced again at his sister, and shook his head after she had shaken hers. “No, sir, we ain’t never heard of you. We got an Uncle Raoul, and an Uncle Eugene, and an Uncle Gregory and an Uncle Nicholas and an Uncle Armand, leastways, he ain’t really our uncle—Uncle Armand—but we call him so. But we never heard of an Uncle Ernest.”
Ernest still smiled, but his mouth tightened. “Well, then,” he said lightly, “I’m just a new discovery. You see, I’m your papa’s brother.”
“Papa didn’t have no brother,” replied the boy abruptly. But the little girl reached out and plucked his sleeve. Still keeping his eyes fixed on Ernest, the boy leaned backwards while his sister whispered in his ear. Then he frowned.
“Are you that man?” he demanded.
So, that’s what they have called me, thought Ernest wryly. He said aloud: “I’m sure I don’t know, Paul. You see, I’ve been quite a distance away, so I suppose your parents haven’t told you much about me.” He paused. “I’m not really very bad, you see. I’ve got two little boys of my own, your cousins. Haven’t you heard of Godfrey and Reginald, and your little girl-cousin, Gertrude?”
Amazement shone on the children’s faces, and they burst into an excited chorus of exclamations. Was he Frey’s and Reggie’s and Gertrude’s papa? Was he Auntie May’s husband? They swarmed about him, incredulous, but warm with sudden friendship. The baby, Lucy, leaned against his knee; the twins stood side by side, breathless and eager, on the hearth, staring at him.
How strong and brown and handsome they are, thought Ernest enviously, almost painfully. No one would ever have suspected them of being Martin’s children. All three of them had fiercely blazing eyes, choleric and intolerant, short belligerent noses, big generous mouths a bit on the sullen side, and vital hair, curling and medium brown. Their bodies were stocky, like his own; their legs were like his, also, well-made and well-planted, as if they owned the ground and no foolishness. They had square shoulders, tensely held hands, proud if insolent carriage, “cockiness” and independence, pride and angry courage. Looking at them, Ernest felt a sudden kinship to them, closer than the avuncular one, almost as if they were bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. He had never felt this way toward either of his young sons, and even his passion for Gertrude did not have it in this strong tide of blood-feeling, this complete understanding and body-sympathy. Strange that his own children should seem more like Martin’s, and Martin’s children more like his! This realization shook him profoundly, and he looked back at his nieces and nephew with an expression of passionate concentration.
All at once, in the midst of this flow between the man and the children, which the children themselves unconsciously recognized, it occurred to him that they did not appear like offspring who had just heard of their father’s death. So he asked cautiously, while he lifted little fat Lucy to his knee and began to stroke her gleaming curls: “Where is your papa, Paul?”
The boy bridled, smiled, glanced at his smiling sister, and nodded: “My papa’s in the war. He’s fighting the wicked old Rebels, and he’s going to bring me back a gun. Why aren’t you in the war, Uncle Ernest?”
Ernest bit his lip to hide his amusement. “Well, it’s this way, Paul you see, a number of us must stay at home to make the guns and the cannon and the powder for our soldiers to use. That is what I do: make guns and cannon and powder.”
The little girl suddenly tugged again at her brother’s sleeve, and he leaned backwards to listen to her whisper. His expression changed, became doubtful. “My papa says it’s wicked to make things to kill people with,” he said. “Papa says soldiers are wicked men, murderers. He went to war, but he isn’t going to fight,” he added with such open and child-like regret that Ernest’s amusement rose to a high pitch. “He’s just going to help people get something to eat, and because this war is kind of good, freeing the slaves, and everything.” His voice became more and more doubtful, more and more regretful. The little girl’s face, so like her twin’s, also showed this regret.
So, thought Ernest with obscure and elated satisfaction, Martin’s idealism had not tainted the healthiness of his children’s minds, for all the apparent intensity of his efforts. Perhaps it was just as well that Martin had died. For his own sake. He would never have had any peace as his children grew older, for he would always have been in conflict with them, trying to silver-plate the strong iron of them, trying to make hands, that grasped and were made to hold, carry olive branches tied with blue ribbon. He would have tried to make marching feet walk softly, tried to tune hearty rough voices to gentleness. Yes, far better that he should die this way, far better for his children, too.
There were slow footsteps on the stairs in the hall, the murmur of old Mrs. Heckl’s voice. It was apparent that she was
bringing Amy down. Hearing that voice, the children turned and ran toward the door, shouting at the top of their lungs: “Mama! It’s Uncle Ernest to see you! He’s Frey’s papa, and Reggie’s papa, and he makes guns! Mama, can we have a gun if Uncle Ernest brings us one?”
Ernest heard a great cry from old Mrs. Heckl, he heard a faint one from Amy. He rose swiftly, went to the door with the speed and silence of a cat, and entered the hallway. Again, he had the oddest conviction that Amy might even now run from him, hide away from him. The instant he left the room, the outer door opened and Gregory entered, panting with haste. He hid himself in the shadows.
The hall was dimly lit, and in that pallid and uncertain light Ernest saw Amy, stopped upon the stairs, her hand on the banister. She wore a loose white wrapper, and her thick brown hair hung over her shoulders and back in the disorder of grief. He saw her face, white to ghastliness, the black circles under her eyes, the agony in the expression of her colorless mouth. Below her stood old Mrs. Heckl, staring at him with an almost ludicrous face of hate and terror, her lips apart, her eyes dilated. The children, puzzled and still quivering with their eager excitement and vitality, stared up in sudden silence at their mother.
Ernest came to the foot of the stairs, and ignoring the old woman and the children, he held up his hand to his sister-in-law. She looked down at him in mournful fascination, saw his large pale features, saw what he dared not say.
“Amy,” he said gently. And he went up a step or two, and took her hand. It was cold and rigid as stone, but she did not remove it. He stepped down, still holding her hand, and she followed, as if sleepwalking, still regarding him with that vacant yet agonized expression. Her loose white garments trailed behind her; her hair rolled on her shoulders.
Dynasty of Death Page 54