After their first inane words, they were silent for a few moments, smiling foolishly at each other. Behind those foolish smiles chaos rushed along like storm-ridden clouds. Ernest had waited very patiently; he had seen Amy many, many times from a distance; he had contrived this seeing. And had waited, knowing that this moment must come some day at last. So his embarrassment was not so great as hers, though now that he held her hand, stood close to her, watched her breathing, and her consternation, his hunger started up and stood astride of him like a starved beast. And with it the strange old feeling, mad and incredulous, that it was preposterous, unbelievable, that she should not belong to him. The sense of furious outrage, of monstrous deprivation, went leaping all through him again.
Yet he dropped her hand easily enough, and led her to a seat along the side of an empty marble wall. The bank had few customers, for it was noon, and very hot, and the cashiers yawned behind their brass grills. They were languidly diverted at the sight of Mr. Ernest Barbour talking so earnestly and inaudibly to Mrs. Martin Barbour near the wall, and tried, out of sheer ennui, to hear what was being said.
Yet what he was saying was inconsequential enough. He was telling her of a day her children had spent in the Sessions house; “my house,” he called it. He related a tale of one of Paul’s enormities, which caused Amy to blush, and laughingly apologize. She put her lacy handkerchief to her lips, and looked over it at him with laughing eyes; behind it, her lips shook. Something was singing all through her body, a sort of airy ecstasy, a dancing along her nerves, that had nothing whatsoever to do with the silly little tale. It had been a long time since she had felt this excitement, this mysterious and shameful urge. She was sitting down and Ernest was standing before her, leaning toward her, his hand against the wall at the side of her head. Through the corner of her eye she could glimpse this hand at stolen moments; its size and breadth, the largeness of the knuckles, the bluntness of the fingers, were all vividly remembered by her. But never had she wanted so terribly to kiss that hand, to hold it against her cheek, humbly, surrenderingly; she had to clench her own hands to control herself, while she lashed herself with her own contempt. But the desire remained, and it was like the heat of close fire over all her flesh. She thought with real horror: “If we were alone, now, I don’t know what I would do. I don’t know what I would do—!” When she glanced again at his supporting hand, she had a frightful perception of acute and imminent danger, and a cold thrill ran over her body.
She glanced up, shivering. It occurred to her all at once that she had not heard Ernest’s voice for some moments. His posture, his closeness, gave her a cornered and conquered sensation, at once helpless and intoxicating. But it was his eyes that finally aroused her to realization: they were looking down at her, their paleness glittering and devouring. His heavy lips were parted, and she could see the moist shine of his strong white teeth. Her instinct recognized the lustful male look, and it brought her upright, abruptly.
“Well, I must go,” she said suddenly, and it seemed to her that she was babbling insanely. “I came to see Uncle Gregory, and he isn’t here, so I must go home, for the children are so boisterous and uncontrollable until they have had their lunch, and the baby had a little fever this morning, and I promised Elsa—” And so on, in the pointless chatter of fear and confusion.
Ernest still looked down at her with that look that alternately terrified her and filled her with ecstatic languor. He did not say anything, did not move. Then, after a long time, he removed his hand from the wall, stood up slowly. He half turned from her, stared at the distant bronze door. His profile, jutting, rudely carved, was outlined against the dimness. He said indifferently, without looking at her: “I am a director here, now, and perhaps I can help you.”
In a saner time he would have been the last person in all the world to whom she would have told the reason for her coming to the bank today. But she was not entirely sane just then; to her profound cold horror she heard her babbling voice go on and on, telling everything, from the terms of Martin’s will, to the deliberate delay in the carrying out of the terms, from her uncle’s procrastination to her own anger and determination to see that the will was fulfilled.
Ernest listened, still not looking at her, his face slightly averted. His expression was that of any courteous, mechanically interested director of a bank listening to the complaint of a client. When she had finished, miserably, he was silent for a little while, and then said thoughtfully: “If you wish, I’ll look into it for you, though I am certain that your uncle is proceeding with all possible discretion and competence—”
“Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed Amy, hot-faced with confusion and mortification. “Please forget I spoke of it. It isn’t fair to Uncle Gregory. I’m sure he can explain.” She stood up, almost crying in her nervous embarrassment and agitation. “I don’t know what possessed me—”
He smiled, almost imperceptibly, and secretly. “Of course,” he agreed in a soothing voice. He offered his arm. “May I help you to your carriage?”
When she had gone he walked into the President’s office and asked that the papers pertaining to the Barbour estate be brought to him. He was still studying them at five o’clock. At that time Gregory returned unexpectedly from the country, and came into the office.
He stepped back when he saw. Ernest. “Pardon me,” he said formally, and would have gone out but Ernest lifted his hand. “A moment, please, Mr. Gregory. I have something here I would like to talk to you about. Something that has been hanging fire a long time, and ought in all decency to be settled, considering this bank is in the position of joint administrator. Will you come in, please, and be seated?”
An hour later, Gregory, livid-faced and pinched of mouth, said: “You’re not really interested in justice being done, either to your dead brother, whom you persecuted shamefully, or to those he helped. What is it, then?”
Ernest folded the papers, put them away in their envelope. He smiled slightly, and said, without glancing at the old man: “Say I am interested in justice as a pure thing in itself. Or say, as a director, I am interested in business being settled and over with.”
Gregory pushed himself painfully to his feet; every muscle in his face was twitching, and his voice was a little strangled. “Say, instead, that you are interested in Amy.”
“Amy?” Ernest blandly lifted his eyebrows as if in surprise. “What has Amy, except as a client, got to do with the business of this bank? After all, though you are her uncle, I hardly believe she would forgive you for interfering grossly in her affairs, even to the extent of embezzling funds, though you might plead it was for her sake. I don’t like embezzlement; it’s a nasty business. Authorities don’t like it. I hope, now everything is straightened out satisfactorily, that your niece will be satisfied.”
Gregory went home. The twitching of his face extended to his legs. He could hardly get out of the carriage when it arrived at the house. Amy was quite alarmed at the sight of him, led him into the library and poured him a glass of brandy. He watched her as she pampered him, and thought that though she was in her thirties, she was lovelier than ever, with a matured gentleness and poise that was infinitely soothing. He did not underestimate her; he knew she looked too straightly, was too logical and realistic, to be insulted with hints and innuendoes. So, after he had rested a little, had put his feet into the house slippers she had brought him, and had relaxed under the cool smoothing of her hands on his forehead, he said, trying to keep his voice steady: “Amy, my love, were you at the bank today?”
The hands on his forehead halted a moment, then she said calmly: “Yes, Uncle Gregory, I was. I went to see you, but they told me you were not there.” She put her fingers on his eyelids, and he wondered if it were really true that they trembled ever so slightly. “But, it isn’t important just now. Please rest.”
“But it is important, Amy. Did you see Ernest while you were there?” He gently put aside her hands. He looked up into her face piercingly. A faint color rose on its ch
eekbones, but she did not glance aside.
“Yes, I saw him.” Anxiety wrinkled her forehead. “Why do you ask, Uncle Gregory? Did he say—anything—to you?”
“Yes. He had called for the papers pertaining to Martin’s estate, and when I dropped in for a few minutes, he insisted I remain and go over them with him. Did you, ma’am, ask him to do so?”
She had turned excessively pale. But she answered steadily: “It is all my fault. I am such a fool. I did not ask him to do anything about it, Uncle Gregory. To do so would have been an insult to you. But I haven’t seen him for some time, and it was hot, and I was disappointed, and I didn’t seem to have anything to say to him, and I am afraid—I babbled—”
“I see.” Gregory’s voice was quiet and thoughtful. He stared before him for a long while. As clearly as though he had been there he reconstructed the scene. It seemed to her that he repudiated her, and a dry sob rose in her throat. She pressed her palms together and looked down at him piteously, as though begging his forgiveness.
“Sit down, Amy, I must talk to you,” he said steadily but faintly. When she had pulled a low chair near him, and was regarding him pleadingly, he went on determinedly, not looking at her for fear he might falter and save her the pain he must cause her for her own sake.
“I must tell you something. Perhaps I should have told you before. I see now that I should have told you. It would have saved many unpleasant things. But better now than not at all.
“Amy, I am sure you will remember the night we introduced Ernest Barbour to May. It’s a long time ago. But I am sure you will remember.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Ernest Barbour,” he went on, wondering desperately how to proceed, “has always felt for you, from the first moment he met you, something which he no doubt calls love. If he has ever cared for any one in his crafty life, he has cared for you. He still cares. Amy, you know that?”
“Yes. I know that, Uncle Gregory.” The color flushed into her face again, and to his despair and self-reproach he saw the sudden brightening of her eyes, the involuntary lift of her expression.
“But what you don’t know, ma’am,” he said bitterly, “is that he refused to have you. On that night, a long time ago, I offered you to him, and he refused to have you.”
She cried out, faintly. Then she stood up, her cheeks red with shame.
Gregory nodded. Then he drove the knife home, as a surgeon might drive it, to reach an abscess. “You see, Amy, he was under the impression that you were our heiress, and when I told him the truth, he was terribly shocked. Shocked, because he really loved you, if you can call it love. He had been about to propose to you, and when I told him that, he did not. I knew you cared for him, so I as much as offered you to him, outright. You know the rest. Within the year he married May, who was the real heiress. I lied to you, ma’am, if you will remember. Because you seemed to be guessing the truth, and I couldn’t stand for you to be hurt and humiliated.
“Yes, he loved you. But he loved you less than he loved money. And to this day, he loves you less than he loves money and power. If he had it to do over again, he would do as he did, even though he knew that he would always love you.”
She had grown quieter and paler as he had talked. When he had finished, she sat down again, facing him. Her expression was quite calm, and only the peculiar drawn brightness of her eyes betrayed anything of what she was feeling.
“He is a coward, a welcher,” said Gregory. His lips felt numb and thick, and there was a strange tearing in his chest. “If he had been all a man, he would have abided by his decision. He had made his choice. But now he wants to eat his cake and have it, too.”
She moistened her mouth, and after a few moments was able to ask in a low voice: “Why do you tell me all this, now?”
Gregory was silent for so long a time that she began to believe he had not heard her. Then he answered: “Amy, you know why I have told you.”
“I believe I do.” She stood up, trembling a little. She walked to the door. “Paul and Elsa are waiting to see you, Uncle Gregory. I believe it’s something about a boat for Paul’s birthday. I’ll send them in, while I see about dinner.” She went out, closing the door softly behind her.
Gregory sighed, relaxed in his chair. A faint grin, bitter, half-regretful, and wholly sad, stretched his lips. “I’ve finished you now, Mr. Ernest Barbour,” he whispered aloud.
He had done the right thing, he knew. He knew very well that Amy had too clear a vision to be sentimental, that eventually, she would have given in. She loved Ernest Barbour too well to have withstood him much longer, now that he was definitely after her and would not be denied. She would have been helpless, with more than a little of her own consent.
Gregory, himself, had lived too long, too far removed from impracticalities, to have considered such a surrender shameful or reprehensible. Had it not been Ernest Barbour, he would have told his niece frankly not to fight against the only thing in life which has true validity, true splendor and satisfaction. But—it was Ernest Barbour. And he, Gregory, had waited many, many years just for this.
But still, the old sentimentalities that encrust the race had their last little moment with him. He whispered: “He would have hurt her. He would have devoured her and ruined her.” And knew that he lied, and was disgusted that he could lie so to himself, and he an old man. “There is May,” he persisted, to that disillusioned self, and had to wince.
He raised himself painfully and laboriously in his chair. He said aloud: “Nothing could have stopped her, now that he’s at her heels. Nothing but shame. I’ve given her that, poor child. He’ll not get around that. He’ll never get around that! I’ve done you in, Mr. Ernest Barbour. I’ve had the last word, after all!”
He began to cough thickly. He thought, in a confusion: I’ll not put off going to the doctor any longer. I ought to have gone a long time ago. This pain—but of course it’s just my age—it’s just my stomach. A slight indigestion. He coughed again.
The next day he was unable to return to his desk. He had no desire to, however. Hour after hour, he sat in his library, or walked in the garden with the children, or talked to his niece. All desire had left him, for everything. He could not feel sad even over the fact that he did not regret the loss of his desire. He was like a numb and drowning man who indifferently and slowly releases the edge of a spar, finger by finger, while the waves grow larger and blacker and more imminent. Like that drowning man, he felt that the struggle to live, to breathe, to fight, had become insupportable.
One night, in his sleep, he released his last dim hold on the spar, and the waves sucked him down.
CHAPTER LIV
May insisted that her cousin, Gregory Sessions, be buried from his old home, where he had been born and where he had lived the major part of his life. Amy consented, for only she knew how he had missed the Sessions house, and how hard he had tried to accustom himself to the new house in Quaker Terrace. It seemed little enough to do for him, to let him lie once more in his old home, to let the green light from the trees shine in upon his dead face. Besides, she was too grieved to offer any objection to anything.
So, in this emergency, the old promise to Martin was forgotten, and Amy entered the Sessions house for the first time in many years. Even in her grief, it was soothing to enter here, where everything seemed to remember her, and where she remembered everything. She slipped away from the crowded groups talking whisperingly in the drawing rooms, and went all through the house, with the exception of the bedrooms. But her old bedroom, she discovered, was not being used at present, and she went in, closing the door behind her. It was just as it used to be, even to the ruffles on the high deep bed and the canopy over it. To be sure, she reminded herself, the ruffles were new, as were the ruffled curtains, but someone had decided to keep the room as it had been. The sunlight poured through the open window, lying on the thick dark-red rug, on the white and virginal bed, the pale ivory walls, the polished mahogany dresser and high-bac
ked chair. Crystal candlesticks dripping with rainbow prisms still stood on the mantelpiece. Of course, it was all a little prim and old-fashioned: Great-grandmother Pierce had brought most of this furniture from England one hundred twenty-five years before. But it was simple and fresh, and, to Amy, full of innocent peace. She sat down upon the bed, then dropped her head to the fat ruffled pillows. She had not slept much during the past two nights, and her eyelids were raw and burning from tears. But it was so silent here, so comforting, as though the room had arms that had enfolded her, a consciousness that had remembered her, and she fell suddenly into a profound sleep.
When she started awake, the windows were rectangles of shining blue sky, but the sun had gone. The air that rushed through the room was fresh and scented, but unseasonably cool. For a long moment Amy was utterly disoriented. She was back again in her old home, a young girl. Time had doubled on itself, had returned her unscathed and unwounded to her prim, soft little bed, as a tide brings back the jetsam it has carried out. She sat up, pushing back her disordered hair, struggling with the curious enchantment that seemed to lie over her. She had slept here for the last time the day before she had left it forever as a bride. Then all the years had come between, husband and children, death and sorrow, hopelessness and pain. They had run like swift water between herself and this room, frothing and thundering. But the water had gone, and she had crossed the narrow space of Time and was back again in her old bed, with the old simple peace upon her. Oh, if it could be true! she thought, lying back upon the pillows, pressing her cheek into them. If I only were as I was once, with Uncle Gregory waiting downstairs for me to join him at dinner, and the collies racing on the lawns, and my new gowns in the closet, and no complications, no sadnesses, no tirednesses waiting for me outside. But things were not so simple as all that, more was the pity. One came back to the old places, but one was not the same. Strangers with borrowed memories came back, strangers who had no right in the old places that waited for the old familiars. She, herself, with all the burdens of life upon her, her very face changed, experiences carved upon her mind, was an intruder in this room where a young girl had slept and dreamed.
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