Hilda nodded her head, fiercely smiling. “Perhaps so. But there’s no Bedlam and no gaol that could hold you. The law can’t touch you; it never does touch murderers and robbers as big as you are. It’d be like trying to chain the Black Plague. You are a plague! But God remembers; God will reach you some day. You can’t keep Him out, Ernest Barbour. You’ve got a reckoning with Him, for all the lives you’ve spoilt, all the lives you’re still trying to spoil, even your poor daughter’s life, and your poor wife’s, and Frey’s, and Amy’s—You can’t shut God out; your doors can’t keep Him out!”
Ernest turned to her. “You’re a silly old woman,” he said, apparently without rancor or much interest. “Like all old people you talk too much. You’re abusive and foolish. Because you’ve become so cantankerous, no one wants you about. I’d advise you to mend your ways. None of us is going to put up with you much longer.”
He left the room, walking firmly.
Hilda stood where he left her for a few moments, then fumbled blindly for a chair. Rigors ran over her stout old body. She sat on the edge of the chair, her hands, palms upward, on her knees. They were short, fat, warped palms, that had known hard work for four children. They were hands that had thrashed them, tended them in babyhood and illness, loved them. But she did not look at her hands, which pathetically expressed more than any words could say. She lifted her eyes, brimming again with a sharp saltiness like blood, and fixed them on an old daguerreotype of the young Joseph Barbour, which stood upon the mantel. She began to whimper, like a lost and whipped child.
“Joe, lovie, that was our son, Ernest, talking to his Ma with such a face and voice! That was the lad we were so proud of, walking him down Sandy Lane, a little toddler, holding his hands so he wouldn’t fall. Do you remember, Joe, how we picked the daisies for him? Even then he snatched at things! But he was so pretty, such a red-cheeked little lad, and you said that there was nothing you’d not do for him, and you just a lad yourself!”
She sobbed aloud, terribly. Something seemed to wrench in her breast, tear away. “That was our lad, Joe, talking to his mother with that face, like a devil’s! Remember when I carried him, and he was so vigorous even then, in my womb, and we’d sit in your old aunt’s garden, with the trees dripping around us, and we’d plan for him, when he’d be born? And I was so glad I was having him, your son, Joe.
“O God in Heaven, why do we have children? Joe, why did we have them, to hate us at the last? We bring them here, and love them, and give our lives for them, and all we can hope for is that they won’t hate us before we die. But they always do—they always hate us!”
She struck her palms silently and frenziedly together, in the strength of her grief. She turned and stared at the door through her tears.
“Ernest,” she whispered brokenly. “My son, come back to your Ma. I love you, my lad, even now, I love you—”
Ernest was talking to his sister and her husband in the reception hall as he pulled on his gloves and waited for his carriage.
“There’s no doubt that she needs attention,” he was saying casually. “She’s not responsible. I’ll have Dr. Benjamin stop in tomorrow and see her. There are places, fine private places—”
A dull thud from upstairs shook the ceiling for a moment. They all stared at each other, paling, frozen. Then Florabelle, with a faint cry, gathered up her skirts and fled up the stairway. Behind her ran her husband and brother. A fine high singing suddenly began to pierce Ernest’s brain, like a string drawn tightly; he was wet with sweat when he arrived at his mother’s door a pace behind his sister.
Hilda was lying in a huddled mound upon the floor, her face turned to the ceiling, her eyes glazed and open. Ernest glanced over Florabelle’s shoulder at their mother, and he seized her shoulders suddenly and swung her into her husband’s arms. She collapsed in them without a sound. The children, aroused by the strange noises, began to peer through the open door, their long white nightgowns touching their brown toes, their puckered mouths open. From the nursery came the wail of the disturbed babies. The lone candle flared with a sickly yellow light as the draft struck it.
Ernest knelt beside his mother. He looked at the open slack mouth with the bloody bubbles at the corners; he looked at the glazed dead eyes. Then he opened up his own large handkerchief and spread it gently over her face. He stood up. Major Norwood had begun to weep silently, for he was a kind-hearted man, and had borne his old mother-in-law no grudges, and the grief of his wife unnerved him.
“My mother,” said Ernest in a thick, expressionless voice, “is dead.” He put his hand to his eyes, as though a light dazzled them.
François, who had had fits when he was a baby, began to scream.
CHAPTER LXV
Ernest, after he had conferred with President Marlowe, of the bank, stopped in at Paul’s tiny private office. On the glass door there was neat black lettering: Office Manager. Ernest smiled. The lad was doing very well, very well indeed. Next year he would be a vice-president. Paul had a flair for finance, had the natural-born banker’s sharp incisive look, cold pointed eye, brisk cynicism and complete disbelief in the integrity of human beings. We’ll make him President, yet, thought his uncle, tapping lightly on the door, then entering.
Paul was sitting at a scarred black desk going over some books with a nervous cashier old enough to be his grandfather. The young man’s face was puckered disagreeably; the old man was crouched in his chair, wetting his lips and trembling. But Paul’s expression cleared and lighted at the sight of his uncle. He dismissed the cashier with a wave of his hand, and the old man struggled to his feet, pale as a spectre; he bowed and scraped first to Paul, then made a deeper and more terrified bow to Ernest, and fled like a rabbit.
“He’s got to go, Uncle Ernest,” said Paul, rising and smiling at Ernest, and extending his hand. Ernest shook it. “Old Sedley’s been with the bank for ages,” he said. “What’s the matter this time?”
“Carelessness. Old age. This is the third time. The amount isn’t much, but it takes effort to untangle things. He’s got to go. In forty years he ought to have saved enough to live on during the few years more he’s got to live.”
Ernest sat down. He laid his cane and hat and gloves on Paul’s desk. He noticed that, as ever, the desk was neat and meticulously arranged. He loved order, and this additional evidence of the likeness between himself and his nephew gratified him. Paul sat down. He was taller than his uncle, and well built, looking much more than his twenty-two years. He was much handsomer than Ernest had been at his age; he had the short belligerent Barbour nose and distended nostrils, a fair clear skin, dark blue eyes and vigorous light brown hair. He kept his face clean-shaved. His manner was alert and vital and hard; yet, he was sentimental at times, which did not displease Ernest, who knew that sentimental people are usually without mercy or gentleness.
There was nothing of his father about him, thought Ernest. Nor, really, anything of Amy, except the fair smooth skin and a certain gracefulness that occasionally imposed itself on the big strong body. He said aloud: “We can’t throw old Sedley on the street, Paul, though I don’t suppose many people would care. But there’s something foolish in the air these days, something they are beginning to call ‘a social conscience.’ Old Sedley was kind to me when I was a raw lad. No, we just can’t throw him out. I suggest we give him a month’s notice and a check for two hundred dollars. That ought to settle the old women and satisfy Sedley, too.”
Paul made a brisk note of this suggestion, nodding respectfully as he did so. “It’s very kind of you, Uncle Ernest. Not many would think of that. I suppose it would be pretty terrible to throw old Sedley and his wife into the almshouse without a little warning, and something to help pay for their funerals. After all, we aren’t barbarians; sometimes it pays to have a feeling for the unfortunate.”
Ernest bit the corner of his lip. Then he said: “Yes, I believe in being kind. We don’t owe Sedley anything; what are forty or more years of service, anyway? He got paid fo
r them, a regular salary, enough to keep him in bread and jam and tea and provide a shawl occasionally for his old wife.”
Paul glanced up sharply, but Ernest’s face was smooth and bland. Paul felt uncomfortable and undefended for a moment. Sometimes Uncle Ernest made remarks that were very ambiguous; he, Paul, could not always tell whether he was laughing at him or not.
The young man lit a thin long cylinder of paper and tobacco, a very fashionable thing called a cigarette; all the young men smoked them: they were quite a craze. He offered Ernest one, was refused. Paul looked at his cigarette doubtfully; he wondered if his uncle would approve of him even more if he stopped the habit. He always wanted to please him. This was not hypocrisy; he really worshipped Ernest, considered him the wisest, keenest, most marvellous of men, and nothing pleased him better than to have some one remark on the resemblance between them. Ernest read his thoughts, and smiled indulgently, and with affection. “But don’t let my likes and dislikes affect you, Paul. Be no man’s imitator. You have a right to your tastes.”
“Uncle Ernest,” said Paul, after a moment, wrinkling his eyes through the pleasant smoke, “I’ve been racking my brains lately about all that money from Barbour-Bouchard stock going into that hospital. Can’t we possibly get around my father’s will? I’ve looked over the will carefully, hour after hour, and I’ve come to the conclusion there might be a loop-hole—”
Ernest’s pleasant expression faded, and he regarded his nephew with some sharpness. “I thought you’d be around to that presently, Paul. Yes, I know, myself, of a number of loopholes. I thought you’d find them. You’ve got a good mind, and it was inevitable. I don’t blame you at all, mind, for resenting all those thousands and thousands in dividends going into the hospital. I realize that it sucks in every penny of the income from the stock. That’s because your father made the policy of the hospital, that those who can’t pay were to have precisely the treatment that the paying patients were to receive, and that even the paying patients were to be charged the smallest possible fees. Your father,” he added wryly, “was a very charitable, a very kind man.”
“I think it is folly!” cried Paul, flushing to the roots of his hair with his heretofore-suppressed anger and resentment. “Charity begins at home. At least, if we’re going to sink every cent into the damned hospital we ought to get a little return from it. I suggest raising the cost of treatment, and treating no one free of charge. There are loopholes—”
Ernest raised his hand abruptly, and Paul subsided, breathing heavily.
“As I said before, Paul, there are loopholes. I saw them before you did. Your mother saw them. She could have changed it all long ago. But she didn’t. She believes she owes it to your father to do as he wished. Nothing,” he added with a sternness that puzzled Paul, “must ever be done in that respect against her wishes, against her belief that she is carrying out your father’s will. It is a great comfort to her.” His voice became preoccupied.
“I don’t see why—” muttered Paul sullenly.
Ernest picked up his cane and struck the desk with it quickly. “There are many things you don’t see yet, my dear lad. If you attempt anything against your mother’s wishes, during her lifetime, I’ll wash my hands of you. Even in talking about it, you displease me very much.”
Paul turned a bright red, but he did not hasten with the apology and assurance that Ernest expected. When it came to money, even affection and respect became reserved in Paul. Ernest sympathized with him, was pleased at what he read in the young man’s face. But he did not relent. “Remember what I’ve told you,” he said harshly, and stood up. Paul had to rise, also. He stood there, immovable as a rock, his expression heavy with his sullenness.
“You’re not starving,” went on Ernest, his ill humor vanishing. He smiled, poked his nephew lightly with his cane. “Your Mama is worth over half a million, nearer three-quarters of a million, in her own name. The railroad stock her uncle left her has quadrupled in value, and will go still higher. Railroad stocks are worth gold these days. You’re not starving.”
“But there are four of us children,” said Paul involuntarily, and was covered with embarrassment at this slip of the tongue.
Ernest laughed. “By the time your Mama dies of a good old age, her holdings and cash will be over a million, maybe two million. Besides,” he winked, “when you marry I’m going to give Trudie ten thousand shares of Barbour-Bouchard stock, as a dowry. And some day you’ll be President of this bank, if I have anything to do with it. What the devil’s the matter now?” for Paul’s expression had become gloomy.
“Uncle Ernest, I can’t get close to Trudie. She holds me off. She won’t let me speak to her. After all, she’s twenty, old enough, God knows, to be married. But she won’t let me speak. I’ve contrived, but I’ve not been alone with her for over a month.” His face became pink and moist with anger and distress, and there was a struck expression in his eyes. “I love her, Uncle Ernest! I’ve got to have Trudie; there’d never be any one else for me, even if she died, or married some one else, or refused me. I’ve loved her ever since we were children. I’d kill any one who ever came between us—” His voice choked, stopped. He turned away with a fierce gesture, as though he were trying to hide an overwhelming emotion. “I’d have Trudie, and no other, if she didn’t have a cent,” he said with strangled bitterness, his voice breaking.
He loves her as I loved his mother, and still love her, thought Ernest compassionately. He clenched his hands about his cane, remembering the young Ernest who had lost his love and who never recovered from it. He felt that in defending Paul, in deciding that Paul should have his love, he was making it up to that young Ernest. Paul was not to have those sterile years of devouring misery, of unending hunger.
“Remember, faint heart never won fair lady,” he said, taking the young man rallyingly by the arm. But Paul did not respond, did not turn. He had thrust his hands in his pockets, and his head was bent. Ernest could see the hard angle of his jaw, the pale lips. “Paul, Trudie’s just an imaginative chit. All girls are silly. You’re too solid to be the delicate knight of her dreams, and all girls dream of dainty knights on white horses. Maybe you’re a little too precipitate. You lack finesse.”
Paul’s muscles tightened under his hand. “To hell with finesse,” he said in a hard voice. “I’m a man; I don’t play games. I’m not going to cavort with songs around Trudie. I want her, as a man wants a woman. You’re trying to say that perhaps I frighten her. No one could ever frighten Trudie. She may be frail and look as though she’d break in my hands, but she isn’t. She’s not afraid of me, except that she’s afraid that she won’t get away from me. There’s no nonsense in her; my hurry, my exigency, if you’ll have it, doesn’t wound her maidenly feelings. She’s not being coy with me. She just doesn’t want me. She hates me.”
Ernest scowled; he forced Paul to face him. “What do you mean by that? The girl doesn’t hate you. I’ve told her a dozen times that I want her to marry you. But I’ve let her take her time. She’s the only daughter in the family, and I prefer her to all of my other children put together. I’ll miss Gertrude more than I can tell you. That’s why I haven’t pressed her. But now I will! Are you satisfied, now?”
But Paul’s bitter look did not lighten; his suffused eyes looked at Ernest cynically, almost with a sneer. “No, I’m not satisfied, Uncle Ernest. You forget Philippe Bouchard, my nice little cousin.”
Ernest dropped Paul’s arm, and his face blackened. “Philippe? That jerking French manikin? God, you’re a fool! I thought better of you! My girl wouldn’t look at him; you’re insulting her! He’s younger than she is, and he amuses her. He’s all over the place, as if he had St. Vitus dance. Trudie wouldn’t look at him, I tell you. What damned nonsense have you got in your thick head?” His voice rose to a shout, but behind the shout, behind his fury, was a nausea. What a fool he had been! He should have watched. I didn’t know, he thought.
Paul turned to him with some eagerness. “I know Trudie
’s your favorite, Uncle Ernest. Because of that, I thought perhaps they, she and Philippe, might get around you, and do me out of her. But if you’ll set your foot down—I’ll have her if I have to take her by force, Uncle Ernest.” He smiled, as though to deprecate his own extravagance, but his eye did not smile.
Ernest put on his hat and pulled on his gloves. A purple tinge had seeped into his face. He did not answer Paul’s smile. He started toward the door and Paul followed. “Look here, Uncle Ernest, don’t push things too far. Just lay down the law to Trudie. Tonight, I’ll see her, if you’ll help me. We’ll settle this tonight.”
Ernest regarded him gloomily, and in silence. I needed no help with your mother, he thought, almost with contempt for the young man. But then, he added to himself, Amy loved me. The purple began to recede from his skin, and he laid his hand on Paul’s shoulder, pressed it. “I’ll help you,” he said quietly. “Come to dinner, if you will. Get your hat. My carriage is outside.”
They drove toward the Sessions house in a deep violet dusk. They did not speak for some time. Ernest moved his large head slowly from side to side, somber with his enraged thoughts. The streets were quiet, and the horses’ hoofs rang through them, echoing. Every one was at dinner. The houses stood steeped in an evening mystery, the trees hanging heavily with quiet, their upper branches still faintly ruddy from a sun fallen behind the river. They drove along the river road, past the factories and the docks, past the squatters’ cabins. The river was the color of iron, and the sky was cobalt above it. Autumn was already chilling the air. The river road, broad and smooth, now called Riverview, had become a fashionable site for the homes of the new-rich, people who were still ostracized by an Oldtown society growing shabbier and shabbier with integrity and pride, with the years. The last of the squatters’ cabins had disappeared, and now great homes stood among new young trees along the road. Lamps were lighted in broad bow-windows; glimmers shone on white columns and wide porches. Smooth lawns, rolled and neat, with iron stags and dogs upon them, ran up to white steps. Each house had its private little dock, with a boat or two tied up to it. Prosperity had come to a section once low muddy banks and flat, sun-warmed stones. Something must have brought this vividly to Ernest’s memory tonight, and he saw the thin white birches and willows along the river, the stones between them, and the sun bright blue upon the glittering water. He saw a little fair boy and a baby girl playing on the stones, and a crippled youth laughing near them. He had seen them like this a thousand times, from the dusty windows of the little red-brick factory, that had now become a series of huge shops, loudly bellowing to the night.
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