Eugene’s attention was suddenly diverted to Gertrude and Philippe, and he was alarmed and annoyed. He felt that he was being treacherous to Ernest to permit this in his home. He was fond of Gertrude, and loved Philippe almost as though he were a son. But he had the innate French cynicism about love-marriages, and in addition thought Philippe too young for Gertrude, though the boy certainly was mature, and, in a way, much older than his cousin, Paul Barbour. And certainly much more subtle, much finer and swifter of comprehension! But that, Eugene decided, was because of his French blood. But all this did not matter. Loyalty to Ernest was the first and only consideration. If Ernest wished to marry his daughter off to that brutal young Britisher, he, Eugene, would not permit anything in his home that would jeopardize his plans. On the contrary, he would help further those plans, however he disliked them personally.
“Philippe!” he called. “Why do you hide yourself? Come here; I wish to talk to you.”
“Papa’s Roland is calling you, Philippe,” whispered Gertrude, with a wry smile.
Philippe pressed her hand, and they looked into each other’s eyes. Then the young man got up and went to his uncle. He sat down beside him. Renee glanced swiftly at Gertrude; she was only fourteen, but she was filled with a hot pity for her cousin. She left her father and went to the older girl and sat down beside her. She put her hard brown young fingers over Gertrude’s, and pressed them. Gertrude, the haughty and reserved, felt no resentment at this silent invasion of her thoughts, this unasked-for understanding. On the contrary, tears came into her eyes, though she smiled. The younger children screamed, laughed, quarrelled and scrambled on the hearth, and Dorcas sat, cool and aloof, and saw everything, and cared for nothing but her family.
Eugene gravely offered his nephew a thin cheroot, and lit one for himself. Etienne and Honore, Jules and Leon, seeing this, suddenly lost their boyish looks, and inconspicuously gathered around, their faces alert and interested. The Business of the Family, they knew, was about to be discussed, and they were vitally interested, even Etienne, who acted out Hamlet and Othello, Romeo and Julius Caesar before his mirror in his bedroom, even Leon, who hated everybody and could not endure the proximity of any one, except Jules.
“I did not have the opportunity to tell you, today, Philippe,” said Eugene, gratified at all this interest among the boys of the family, “but your Mama came in possession today, along with the rest of us, of several thousand shares of the new United Utah Railroad. Thanks to your Uncle Ernest. They did not cost much, for no one believes that California can be united with the East by rail. But your Uncle Ernest’s judgment can be relied upon. We expect those shares to be selling at fifty dollars or more, within ten years. At the present time it is planned for this railroad to run from San Francisco to Ogden, Utah.”
Philippe considered this a long time. “But the cost of labor will be enormous,” he said doubtfully. “You couldn’t drag our Easterners out to the Rockies and beyond. Why, they’re barely more than Territories!”
Eugene smiled, his brown face shrivelling into seams and wrinkles. He tapped Philippe lightly on the knee. “But we have a solution! We’re going to bring in thousands of Chinese, and Irish, to build our railroad! Your Uncle Ernest is leaving tomorrow to consult with the President of the United Utah, and to tell him what we have done, ourselves, and our friends in Pittsburgh, with imported labor.”
“Chinese?” Philippe looked disturbed. “And what will you do with them afterwards? Ship them out?”
“Out? I do not know. Perhaps. Perhaps not. They can breed us cheap labor. Besides, it is terrible work that, in the mountains. Many will die. But these are yellow men, and no matter how they live here, they will be happier than in their own land, where they have floods and famine and cholera.”
“But the Irish are not yellow men. They are white.” Philippe was still uneasy; he regarded his uncle with deep gravity.
“The Irish? I do not know these Irish. I have seen none, except our three watchmen. But they are begging to come. We will give them the opportunity.”
“I do not like Chinese in my country,” said Philippe in a preoccupied voice, as he stared at the fire and frowned.
“In your country? Ah, I forgot. You were born here. You are an American.” Eugene smiled. “Do not worry. This America of yours is big enough for all men.”
“It won’t be, long, with all these brought here,” persisted Philippe morosely. “It is wrong. You must persuade Uncle Ernest not to do this. I feel it will have bad results.”
“How?”
Philippe hesitated. “Uncle Eugene, you can’t have a successful nation if it is divided. And by that I mean divided in tradition, race, philosophy and way of life.” The young man sullenly poked the fire. “To bring in those Chinese, Uncle Eugene, is an act of treason against the people of America, against my people. And Uncle Ernest ought to be made to see this. He has no right to despoil my country.”
Eugene stared fixedly at the toe of his foot, as he moved it before the fire. His face took upon itself, imitatively, the hardness of Ernest’s face, and Philippe smiled a little to see it. He knows I am right; he feels the same way, he thought, but his confounded loyalty stands in the way of his sense of decency and his reason. He doesn’t know that he is being loyal to a wolf.
“You are too young to see all sides of the question,” said Eugene at last. All at once he looked tired. He glanced about the warm sturdy fastness of the big room, filled with the children and their laughter. His children would never forget these nights, this house, he thought. Here was tradition, rooted in simplicity and strength and the fundamental things of pride, security, intelligence and peace. And home. Home in America. His blood rose in irritation. “Despoil your country? Do you think I would allow such a thing? These Chinese shall be shipped out immediately after the work is accomplished! You are only a child, Philippe!” Nevertheless, he felt scratched and sore. He tugged a pipe from his pocket, his father’s pipe, and lit it. As he sat there, irritably puffing, he looked like Armand, a younger Armand, come to life again before the old fireplace.
Philippe spread out his hands in an eloquent French gesture, shrugged, and said, after a moment: “We have enemies inside our gates. Men like Ernest Barbour. These are the destroyers. Perhaps I was wrong. The poor Chinese cannot do us much harm. But men like Ernest Barbour can always do us wrong. He’s a pirate. An industrial pirate. I suppose some people would consider it very fine to have immense industries; but anything immense finally overshadows the smaller things. If he and his kind are not stopped, we are going to have industrial minds and an industrial civilization. I can’t imagine anything less imaginative or beautiful! Or anything more dangerous to the development of individual life.”
Dorcas, who was apparently lost in her own quiet and serene thoughts, glanced at her husband and nephew with a sudden vivid flash upon her face. “I’ve heard that before! It sounds very much like Martin, Philippe! Your Uncle Martin.” She loved no one outside of her children and her husband, but this resemblance of Philippe to Martin aroused her, made her look at him intently, and with a softening in her eyes. “He hated Ernest,” she added gently, and her lashes were wet.
“Oh, Martin was a fool!” Eugene glanced with annoyance at his wife.
“Was he a fool, Uncle Eugene?”
Eugene puffed at his pipe, took it from his mouth, and glared at it. “Who knows?” he muttered. “Diable! This is no world for saints.”
Dorcas laid her hand on her husband’s knee. The gesture was very eloquent. But she looked at Philippe with an odd and speculative expression. It was as though she were looking at him for the first time. But Philippe did not see her.
“Uncle Eugene, what are you—we—going to do if the strikes in the coal mines spread to our mines?”
“Eh? Our mines? I suppose Ernest—we—will do as the other owners do. I suppose we will call in private detective agencies.”
“There’s been plenty of blood-letting in those mines,” warned Philip
pe. “They’ve been shooting down the miners, and even the women and the children. You can’t drive men to the last inch, and over, without having them turn on you. Blood will run from both sides.”
“Canaille!” muttered Eugene impatiently. But he was uneasy. Canaille! That is what they had called his father and his friends, when they had so desperately, and so futilely, opposed tyranny and greed. The guillotine had done good work in those days, and his father had had to run away to escape it.
“Canaille, Uncle Eugene? Words never defeated justice for very long. No wonder Uncle Ernest wants to bring the Chinese in!”
Eugene muttered again. Out of the corner of his eye he regarded his nephew. What had Ernest against this fine boy, this dark, nervous, restless boy? Was it because there was something in him that reminded him of Martin? No, Martin had never had this fire and energy. He thought of Paul Barbour, with distaste. Ernest had imagination: it was strange that he preferred Paul to Philippe. It was very cruel to the little Gertrude, sitting there so tense and silent in the chimney corner, and never taking her eyes off her young lover. It was shadowy in that corner, and her figure and face were nebulous and indistinct; but the light of the fire shone in her eyes and they gleamed steadily and beautifully.
The carriage was arriving for the two “especial friends,” and also the Norwood carriage, for Philippe, Jules and Leon. Eugene Was surprised when he saw Philippe bundle his two younger brothers into the carriage, and instantly guessed the reason why he did not go with them. When Philippe came back into the house, Eugene said carelessly: “I have called the carriage, and I shall take Gertrude home. Do you wish to accompany us, Philippe?”
They were standing in the hall, after the last good-bys, Dorcas and Eugene, Philippe and Gertrude. Gertrude had a cloak over her slim shoulders; her hair was covered by the soft flame of a scarlet-silk scarf. There was upon her the mysterious wild-soft manner that was so peculiar to her, and her face had a gleam upon it.
Philippe looked blank for a moment; he turned to Gertrude. The light had gone from her; she was touching her cheek uncertainly with her hand in a familiar gesture that never failed to awaked tenderness and fierceness in Philippe. The gesture was so lovely, and so pathetic. Philippe thought rapidly. The servant was already helping Eugene into his greatcoat, and Dorcas was holding his hat. The carriage wheels were already grinding the gravel. Then Philippe turned to his uncle. He had taken Gertrude’s hand.
“Uncle Eugene,” he said softly, “we don’t want you to take Gertrude home. We want to walk home together.” They stood side by side, these young resolute things, and regarded their uncle steadily.
“Absurd!” Eugene pretended irritation, but his innate kindness tormented him. “It is late, and damp. There’s a fog coming from the river. It will not be good for Gertrude, to walk through the damp and the mist. It is a long walk.”
“Nevertheless, we wish to walk home together. Alone.” Philippe had turned pale. Both he and Gertrude looked hunted, but steadfast.
Eugene, hat in hand, glared at them with rising irritation. They were making it very hard for him. Dorcas, withdrawn once more in her serene indifference, gazed at them idly. The hall lamp shone on their colorless young faces, their stern young eyes. “You are not very polite, Philippe,” she murmured.
Philippe turned to her with a little passionate gesture. He did not hope much from this cool and selfish woman, who always protected herself, at all costs, from the anxieties and trials of others. “Polite!” he cried. “How can I be polite, when I know all this plot? All this plot to keep Trudie and me apart? We have nothing but enemies. Uncle Eugene is our enemy, too. They want to kill us—!”
Gertrude spoke up now, in a clear high voice. “Philippe and I are going to walk home, alone. We don’t care for what you think is your loyalty to Papa, Uncle Eugene.”
“No!” Philippe cried out desperately. “We aren’t going to pretend, and contrive and sneak and plot! We know what it’s all about. It’s Paul Barbour. But he’s not going to have Trudie. We are going to be married, just as soon as we can, and to hell with what Uncle Ernest wants, or any one wants!”
A faint look of distaste came upon Dorcas’ face. She seemed to withdraw from them into her English reserve, but in reality she did not move a step. But Eugene looked angry and grave at the same time. He was really frightened.
“This is none of my business, what you and Trudie wish to do, Philippe. That does not concern me. You must discuss it with her father. I am merely offering to take Gertrude home, as it is damp, and will soon be raining. All this wild talk of marriage and defiance is very silly. In a few years, you can discuss the subject calmly, with the persons concerned.” He turned to Gertrude and held out his hand imperatively. “Come, my child. It is getting very late.”
Gertrude did not move. Her eyes were distended; she looked like some terrified creature that had been cornered by dogs. Philippe felt her hand grow cold.
“Gertrude is going with me,” he said in a suddenly quiet voice. “You can’t stop us, Uncle Eugene. And you really don’t want to stop us.”
“This is my house!” shouted Eugene, but wincing inside. “I won’t have such folly starting from here. What her father wants is what she must do, silly boys to the contrary. If she walks with you tonight her father will rightly reproach me for lack of duty tomorrow. There is more in this than what you see, you boy just out of the schoolroom!”
“I think,” said Dorcas coolly to her husband, “that is none of your affair, Eugene. I can’t see why you agitate so about a matter that is not your business. Ernest is quite capable of managing his daughter. Gertrude is not a child. If she wishes to walk with Philippe, she is entitled to walk. You have done what is expected of you, and it has been refused. That is all you can do.” She turned to Philippe and Gertrude. She seemed utterly detached, utterly indifferent to their problems and their distress. But she felt some pity for them. “Why do you not be a sensible girl, Gertrude, and remain here for the night, as you often do? After all, it is damp, and you were never too strong.”
Gertrude’s courage had come back. “Thank you, Aunt Dorcas, but I’m going with Philippe. We have things to talk about. I’m sorry to hurt your feelings, Uncle Eugene, but I really am going with Philippe.”
They went out together, past Eugene, who appeared stupefied, past Dorcas, who struggled with sensations of mingled annoyance and amusement. The door closed behind them. Eugene turned to his wife with a mute gesture. She had begun to laugh a little, very softly. Her eyes were sparkling; for a moment he thought she gloated.
“How you hate Ernest, Dorcas!” he exclaimed involuntarily.
She helped him off with his coat, still laughing. He could see the reflection of her face in the dark hall glass. She had never frizzed her hair into bushy “bangs” over her forehead, as was the style, and the pale gold waves framed her cheeks, outlined her head, with an almost artificial beauty.
“Yes,” she said serenely, “I do hate him. I loved Martin so very much.”
CHAPTER LXVII
It was indeed very damp outside. But it was not raining. A bronze moon, shedding no light, hung threateningly in the black sky. Spectral mists, drifting and rolling, came in from the river, which was hidden. All the trees were empty; they stood in mysterious and contorted attitudes, and their cold trunks dripped livid drops of water. Everything was so lonely and so silent, so very sad. Gertrude and Philippe walked slowly together up the rise from Eugene’s house to the road. There were a few shabby houses scattered about, and dim lights twinkled in them. A dog barked gloomily. They reached the street that ran above the rise and looked back. The mists were parting a little, and showed the river, black and swift; the moon hung over it, and orange ripples broke into planes on the water. A steamboat whistle sounded, a melancholy roar that lay on the night rather than disturbed it.
The street was deserted; the cobblestones shone in the feeble and flickering lamplight. Mean little houses stood on each side, shutters tightly drawn.
Smoke hung in the air, and the walk was gritty underfoot.
Gertrude coughed, and pulled the cloak closer about her. “It is indeed very damp,” said Philippe, alarmed. “We should not have insisted, perhaps.”
She held his arm, and pressed it against her side. It bruised her young breast. She did not mind. Their shoulders rubbed together, stayed together. They walked down the street, forgetting everything, their faces turned to each other. The lamplight shone on Gertrude’s face; her eyes were as deep and shining as a pool.
“Eighteen months!” cried Philippe, “it is not too long!” They stopped in the shadow of a clump of leafless trees, and they pressed their lips together, their young bodies welding into one in the embrace.
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