She sat up again, sighing. A fleecy white rug lay across her legs. Someone, she thought, startled, had come in upon her and had covered her against the cool fresh breeze. She was a little annoyed, disliking the thought that she had lain in defenseless sleep while someone had looked down at her at leisure; it was almost like being caught naked. It was undignified, if not humiliating.
She rearranged her hair in the old, slightly bleared mirror which had once reflected the fresh smiling face of a young girl. Now it reflected the face of a tired woman in her thirties, thin and worn a little sharp, whose eyes were heavy from crying and lost sleep, whose cheeks were pale and drawn. It was surely not the face of that young girl! Even the eyes were not the same. Suddenly she thought: I’ve never been happy one moment since I left here!
“No, no!” she exclaimed aloud, in panic, dropping her hands from her hair. Surely she had been happy in her marriage! That first year or two of gentle understanding and contentment and companionship—nothing could ever change that or spoil its memory. She recalled Martin’s unvarying kindness and sweetness, his consideration and faithfulness in all things, his simple love that she had not fully appreciated. “He was too good for me,” she said in a dull voice. But, surely she had been happy in her marriage. If the last years had been gloomy and bleak, tight-lipped and lonely and desperately resentful, the fault was hers, not Martin’s.
She went to the door and opened it. The room was still bright with the reflected light from the sky and the green thick trees; the white soft bed waited under its ruffled counterpane and canopy; soft light poured along the rounded curves of the chairs and dresser. On the swept hearth a load of small logs waited in their basket, and the brass tongs and poker stood ready. But the hall outside was dark and chilly and silent. From the rooms below there rose the dim murmur of respectful voices, May’s sudden faint sobbing. But Amy looked back at the room of her girlhood as she stood on the threshold that led out into the dark hall and her present life. When she finally closed the door, she felt as though she were shutting in some part of her life that was gone forever, some part of herself she would never know again.
Gregory was buried in the family plot where his parents already lay, his sister, Amy, and his uncle, May’s father. Martin was not buried in that plot; he lay beside his father at a little distance. It was a hot still day when Gregory was buried, the trees heavy and warm with summer, the shadows clear black and sharp on the vivid green grass. Amy watched them lower the coffin into the earth, heard the solemn words “Whosoever believeth in me shall never die,” and knew suddenly, without question or doubt, that Gregory was not really in that coffin, being lowered into that moist black ground. Where he was, she did not know, but she did know that he was not here, would never be here. She carried this comfort back to her home with her, a strange, weird comfort that sustained her for many days until she had become accustomed to her grief.
CHAPTER LV
When Gregory’s will was opened, it was discovered that it had been newly written. May Sessions Barbour, of course, inherited his share of the Sessions properties and interest, including the stock and the bonds. His share was much larger than had been estimated. Ernest, figuring rapidly, was pleasantly surprised to discover that his private liquid assets were some hundred thousands above his original estimate. He had known for some time that Gregory had the controlling number of shares; now he, through May, had this control. It was all his, this larger share of the mills, the mines, the wells, the lumber yards, the foundries, the fleet of flat-boats on the river, and the controlling interest in the bank, which carried with it the Chairmanship. The bank, in its way, controlled the financial destinies of the town. Ernest had often imagined this moment, when he would be the most powerful man in Windsor, perhaps in the State, but its full sweetness and richness of flavor was greater than his expectation. To be sure, Senator Nicholas Sessions was a partner in all these enterprises, a lesser partner; but as he was never actively engaged in the management of them, and as May would eventually inherit his share also, he left everything in Ernest’s hands. Thus Ernest had absolute power in all dealings.
He knew some moments of intoxicated exultation. He was still under forty years of age, and he was the richest man in the State, surely the most powerful! He had always wanted a subtle hand in State, and even national politics: now Senators would be errand boys for him! A few weeks after Gregory’s will had been probated, Ernest invited the Governor and his wife for a week’s visit, an invitation which was immediately and graciously accepted, though Ernest had assured the Governor that the visit would be informal and quiet, because of Gregory’s recent death. Once, Ernest had a moment of grandiloquence, and said to himself, aloud, in an exultant voice: “Eugene once told me I was a man of destiny, and by God! he was right!” He was immediately embarrassed by this childishness, but the impression remained with him, a secret intoxicant.
Gregory had left seventy-five thousand dollars from his private liquid assets to his niece, Amy Drumhill Barbour, and lesser bequests, notably fifty thousand dollars to John Baldwin. None of the children of either Amy or May was specifically mentioned, except little Godfrey, Ernest’s son, for whom Gregory had lately acquired a secret affection. He left the child five thousand dollars with which to purchase “the best possible violin.” May, in soft tears, thought this excessively touching, but Ernest, looking at his oldest son, set his mouth grimly. He was not so sure of the purity of Gregory’s motives; he knew the old man’s subtleties too well. And hated him, dead though he was, rich as was the fortune left to May.
Not a penny was left to any charity whatsoever.
Nicholas Sessions gave Ernest, whom he increasingly admired, power of attorney. Nicholas and the bank had been made joint administrators of the will. Thus Ernest had the handling of Amy’s legacy as well as all the rest.
Amy was the only one who truly mourned Gregory Sessions. May had been fond of him, in a humorous cousinly way, but her real attachment was for Nicholas. At times she had thought Gregory exceedingly unfair to her husband, and though Ernest was too astute, too indifferent, to disparage him to May, she had gathered that Gregory had been more than a little prejudiced. After the first numbness wore off, and Amy found herself lonely and desolate in a house full of servants and children, she could hardly endure it. Her female relatives suggested that she take Paul and Elsa, now past ten years old, on a sea voyage; Armand and Eugene, who had always liked her, and considered her a grande dame, visited her often with Dorcas, urged “a change of scene” upon her. But two months after Gregory’s death, Amy fell ill from worry and grief, developed a sort of low fever, and was confined to her bed for five weeks, nursed in turn by May and Dorcas and Florabelle. Everyone came, even Hilda, except Ernest. He inquired politely enough about his sick sister-in-law, sent her flowers and brotherly messages, but seemed little interested. He had waited a long time; he could wait a little longer. But not too long. May told him that Amy was much changed in every way, and she shook her head when she told him. But Ernest, who loved Amy, knew that to him she would never be changed, not even in old age, not even in death.
CHAPTER LVI
Amy recovered. She had grown very thin, so that her height seemed to have increased. She moved more slowly and in a more stately manner, though her poise had always been remarkable. She was very lonely, for she was too intelligent not to be bored by children, however much she loved them, yet she shunned visitors, never visited, herself, except for a brief call or two upon the widowed Florabelle and Dorcas. The first snow was already upon the ground, lying thinly upon the gardens; she would sit by the large French windows of her own sitting room, warming her feet by the fire, and looking out upon the white silence of the earth. She rarely read, did little sewing; she seemed to be thinking, absorbed in her mournful and lethargic thoughts. When the children rushed in upon her she received them with gentle smiles, kisses and touches, but seemed glad when they had gone out again. Warm life appeared to be suspended in her. Sickness of mind had
succeeded sickness of body.
It was just after Thanksgiving, when the sky was gray and still, the snow deep and dimpled and carved into drifts by a recent wind, that Ernest called upon her with papers from the bank pertaining to her legacy, which demanded her signature.
He asked the neat maid who admitted him not to announce him; she led him to the door of the little sitting room where Amy spent her slow days. He knocked gently, and at her faint command to enter, he opened the door and stepped inside the room.
She had been sitting there, thinking of him, as she always did, night and day. She had been sitting quietly enough, her feet on the fender, her white woolen morning robe loosely belted about her, but within she had been crying out, running to and fro, as she was always doing. But by some odd power of telepathic communication, the memory of Ernest, the very feel of his personality, had been intensely upon her, so, that when he entered, standing by the door for a moment after he had closed it behind him, she was not surprised, only bemused.
“I was thinking about you,” she said simply, in a voice that sounded as if it came from some distance. The next minute realization flooded in upon her, and she rose to her feet, clutching the robe about her.
The pretty, informal room was very dim and warm, except for the pale white wall of the windows that looked out upon the snowy gardens. A fire burned red upon the hearth, and a canary in a golden cage whistled near the window plants.
Ernest looked at Amy intently as he advanced slowly toward her across the soft primrose carpet. Yes, he thought suddenly, with a sort of sick pain, she has changed a great deal, my poor Amy, my darling. He did not at first see her expression of repulsion and anger, even fear. He stopped a little distance from her, and then, as the fire leapt up a little, he saw that expression. Something cold and warning ran through him.
“Well, Amy,” he said quietly. He laid his leather letter-case upon the table, kept his hand upon it.
“You should not have come here!” she cried out suddenly, in a voice shrill and tight. She retreated a step from him.
Now his own voice sharpened. “Why not? You aren’t very hospitable, or even courteous, Amy! Your Uncle Nicholas has given me power of attorney, so I am virtually the administrator of your legacy. You have been ill and unable to attend to business, so I have brought the necessary papers to you today for your signature. I am sorry to say that this matter could not have waited. Otherwise I assure you that I would not have come today.”
He could see that she was swallowing convulsively as she listened. She had put her hand to her throat as though it pained her. He moved a chair near the table, and said, more gently: “Please sit down here, Amy, and sign these papers. And then I will go at once, if that will give you pleasure.”
She bent her head. Very slowly, as if enfeebled, she moved to the chair and sat down. He dipped his own pen into the ink for her, handed it to her. He turned the papers as her trembling hand put her signature upon them. When it was all done, he folded the papers and began to put them back into the case. Not a sound had passed between them during this interval, though once their hands had touched, and Amy’s hair had brushed his sleeve. Then she said, still keeping her head bent and away from him: “You could have sent someone. Or you could have brought someone with you.”
He finished the methodical putting away of the signed papers before he spoke. Coals dropped upon the hearth in the silence. A flutter of wind flew by the windows, and a tree outside snapped in the cold. Ernest bent over the table and pulled the straps of the case into place. Then he asked softly:
“Why do you hate me, Amy? Because I dare to love you?”
She stood up, supporting herself with her hand upon the table. She looked at him directly, and in the gloom her eyes flashed like fire.
“No!” she cried. “Because you dared not love me!”
Ernest’s head jerked up; he moved a step toward her and stared at her. And she stared back at him, bitterly, contemptuously. There was another silence between them, but now it vibrated. Then, very slowly, Ernest half turned from her and looked at the fire.
“I see,” he said. “So he finally told you.”
She gave a faint and smothered cry, and struck her hands together in a sort of frenzy. All her poise, her control, were gone. “Oh, why did you do that to me? Why did you hurt me so, all these years? I—you—both of us, ruined Martin’s happiness; I wasn’t the wife to him that I should have been! Because of you. Because money was more to you than loving me. When you left me and I married Martin, I thought I could be happy; for a time I really was happy—I think. But I couldn’t forget. I—didn’t know, or I might have forgotten, made myself forget. That’s what I can’t forgive my uncle—not telling me then. Not for my sake, but for Martin’s.” She put her hands over her face, crouched a little, sobbed aloud. “All those years, my years and Martin’s years, wasted and ruined. Because you were a coward, and greedy. Because nothing meant anything to you, but money and power. And you’re still a coward, and greedy. You have what you sold me for, but you are what Uncle Gregory said you were, a welcher. You won’t leave me alone. You won’t leave me to any little peace I might be able to feel eventually.”
All the sufferings of years, all the humiliation, the full realization of what she was herself saying and the truth of it suddenly revealed to her, stood in her tearing and choking voice. When she had finished, she put her hand to her head, sobbed heartbreakingly, without shame or control, a broken and distraught woman. Anguish had done away with all observances of niceties, all masks and proprieties. It would not have touched her if the whole world had heard what she had said. She was beyond all self-respect, all pride.
Ernest watched her without moving. Many things had shaken him, but never like this. The blood stood congested in the veins of his face, and his hands were clenched at his side. Once he moved his large head as though what he was seeing and hearing had become too unbearable for endurance.
He put his hand on the mantel-piece and turned from her when she had finished.
“I can’t say anything,” he said heavily. “What is there for me to say?”
She had stopped sobbing, and was feebly wiping her eyes. “Nothing at all,” she whispered finally. “Nothing at all.” She paused, then resumed eagerly, almost fiercely, in a louder voice: “Except this: knowing everything, would you do what you did over again?”
He dropped his hand from the mantel-piece and turned to her in amazement. She was looking at him passionately, quickened with hope. She was begging him to save her pride at the very last, to rescue her from her humiliation, to give her the comfort of self-respect. She was asking him to give her strength and courage, fortitude and resistance, again. For one moment his love for her was strong enough, selfless enough, to make him want to give her all this, at a terrible cost to himself. For one moment he wanted to bestow this comfort, to restore to her her very strength against him. How terribly he wanted this, with her pleading face and brightened eyes so close to him, her hand outstretched in her last hope!
Then Ernest, the gambler, played what he felt was his greatest stake.
“Do you want me to lie to you, Amy? Do you want me to tell you that I would do differently if I had it to do over again?” He said this simply, regarding her directly and steadily.
For a long moment her face was as blank as though he had struck it unexpectedly. Her eyes blinked almost idiotically, and her hand fell to her side. Then, before she could fully realize what he had said, and what it meant to her, before she could even recover herself a little, he had taken her in his arms, and was kissing her violently, upon the lips and throat and hair, as though the hunger of years could no longer be controlled. He was saying hot and incoherent things in her ear; his arms were crushing her. All through her weak body went a sensation as though she were drowning, and she struggled feebly, her hands fluttering at his arms, her head thrown back.
At last her hands fell slowly, her struggling stopped, and in the room was a deep warm silence.
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CHAPTER LVII
Mr. Lincoln had long ago been assassinated. The War was over and Reconstruction had begun in the South. Ernest had purchased five large cotton mills in two Southern States, and was buying the newest machinery for them. He also bought a vast tract of land in Tennessee. Armand and Eugene had long ago come to the conclusion that Ernest always knew what he was doing, and beyond a few eyebrow liftings and light shrugs they said nothing. But May was edified.
“What are you going to do with that old trash?” she asked. “You are surely not going to add dirt-farming to your list of enterprises, are you?”
“I might,” he answered, smiling, and tugging at the richness of her still beautiful curls. “You ask too many questions, Puss.”
“Well, of course, I’ve only brought you half a dozen mills and foundries; I’ve only restored to you fifty per cent of the Barbour-Bouchard stock which the Sessions Steel owned! Not to mention items such as this house, and the lumber yards and the twenty per cent of the Kinsolving stock that Gregory owned in his own name. However, these are probably so small that they do not give me a right to be interested in your manipulations.”
Ernest laughed. “But I am a very remarkable man!” he said. “All these things, with which you purchased me, are really below my real price. But you, as a woman, are so charming, so sweet and clever in yourself, that I let myself be bought very cheaply.”
May laughed also, but she never forgot those words: “All these things, with which you purchased me.” Yes, she had purchased Ernest; she had never regretted the trade. But love, she thought with unusual bitterness, was a curse; it made you drive mad blind bargains, which, though intrinsically valueless, were necessary to your very life. She had had no rest since her marriage. She had borne Ernest five children, had secured his confidence and his affection, had loved him devotedly, lived only for his comfort and his amusement. She knew she was not a dull woman; knew that only she had the power to make him laugh and relax, look upon problems with a humor he otherwise would not have had. She had never bored him. Yet she knew that he did not love her, that even in his passion she was playing proxy.
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