“Including honor.”
“Including honor.” He sipped the last of his sherry. “But honor always was a cheap commodity.”
In a lesser man, she thought, what he had been saying would have sounded like bravado. But there was not even cynicism in his calm statements.
“With all this foolish agitation about ‘trusts,’ now. Hamstringing industry. The health of a nation depends on the robustness and health of industry. The bigger the industry the bigger the nation, the greater the expansion, the more employment, more money, more power. When giants build cities there are always places in it for the dwarfs. But crippling and hog-tying giants never increased the stature of little men. It is as foolish as telling a farmer with one thousand acres not to plant more than his neighbor with ten acres, in order that the first shall not sell more nor profit more than the last. Or denying the first the use of the railroads because the little fellow cannot afford to use them. You don’t build up civilizations with the smallest stones; you don’t raise forts with pebbles. Business should be allowed to expand to any size. When tables are loaded for the giants there are always lots of crumbs for the pigmies. But you don’t agree with me?” He smiled, and put his hand over hers as it lay on the cloth near him.
She laughed lightly. “My dear, I have never once agreed with you in all my life!”
She rang for the maid, and the small table was carried out. Ernest poked the fire, relaxed into the comfortable chair Amy pulled forward for him. He was in an amiable mood, she saw, with satisfaction.
“Ernest, I want to talk seriously with you, about Paul and Gertrude.”
“Eh?” He turned to her alertly, and suspicion sharpened on his face. “Yes? What about them? I suppose Paul has told you that they are to be married the day before Christmas?”
“Yes.” She gazed at the fire. “But I am not satisfied. From many little things I have heard, I have put two and two together. I am convinced that Gertrude does not want to marry my son.”
He flushed angrily. “What do you mean? What have you heard? It’s all nonsense. Of course she wants to marry him! Girls get notions, but marriage knocks them out of their heads. Gertrude has known for years that I wanted that marriage.”
“But she doesn’t love Paul, Ernest.” She turned to him calmly, though inwardly she was tense. “Believe me, I know.”
“How can you know?” He lifted a shoulder in contempt, and she colored with humiliation. Then again he was suspicious. “Look here, has May been talking to you?”
“No.”
“Gertrude?”
“No.”
He paused. “Amy, you are a poor liar. So Gertrude has come whining to you.” His face became gloomy and disgusted.
“Ernest, suppose the poor child did ask me for help. Isn’t that sufficient to show you that she doesn’t want Paul—?”
“She doesn’t know what she wants,” he replied violently. “She thinks she wants that jackanapes, Philippe, but I know what is best for her. Paul is exactly what she wants; he will make her the best of husbands. What can a girl know of men? Don’t be romantic, Amy!”
“I’m not romantic, Ernest. Put Paul is my son, you know, and I want him to be happy. He won’t be happy, marrying a girl who hates him. Love doesn’t come with marriage. Marriage is a hard thing, and unless love is sturdy enough, and determined enough, the marriage will fail. If Gertrude and Paul marry, their chance of happiness will be non-existent. I’m thinking of Paul, too. I am surprised that he wants Gertrude, knowing how she feels toward him. I’d think he’d have some pride—”
“Bah. He’s set on Trudie; that’s all he cares about. A year or two, and she’ll be fond enough of him. He’s ideal for her.” He turned to her, and to her surprise, he laughed. “Look here, my pet, are you under the impression that I am whipping Gertrude to the altar and Paul? Don’t be silly. She’s old enough to know what she wants; if she really wanted that jack-in-the-box she’d fight for him, and oppose me sturdily enough.”
“You forget,” said Amy quietly, “Gertrude loves you, poor child. You are breaking her heart.”
For an instant he looked touched, and gentler. “Yes, Trudie has always been my pet. In all her life we have never disagreed, until now I hope she understands that it is because I love her so much that I want this marriage. I wish she would trust me to know what is best for her.”
He rose, began to pace up and down the room, his hands under his coat-tails. She watched him gravely. He was very gray, now, and broader than ever; he even had the suggestion of a paunch. But power had thickened and strengthened him; the large pale face was as ruthless and crude as stone.
“Ernest,” she said softly, “I wish you would do something for me. For Gertrude and Paul. I wish you would stop oppressing her in the many ways you have of oppressing people. Give her time. Tell her she has two—three—months to make up her mind, and that after that time, if she is still determined not to have Paul, you will listen to any other suggestion about Philippe. After all, he is really a fine boy, Ernest, and I can’t understand what you have against him, your favorite sister’s son. But you might also tell the poor girl that in all fairness she is to give Paul a chance, that she is to soften her mind to him, consider him without prejudice, to cultivate him and try to find qualities that might please her. Tell her that you are trusting her to be fair, and that for the next two or three months you won’t mention marriage with Paul to her.”
He stopped, swung on his heel, and from across the room stared at her. Those pale relentless eyes flickered, stared, regarded the carpet, returned to her. She wished she could read what went on behind them, but they were closed as always to any penetration. His face became like a smooth mask. She was not deceived. She knew he was giving plenty of consideration to her suggestion, but she distrusted the other reservations he was forming in his mind. When he approached her, seemingly having reached a satisfactory solution, and smiling, her distrust increased. Ernest, compromising, Ernest, smiling, was a man to be watched, and suspected.
He sat down, looking extremely expansive. “Amy, your idea has its merits. Suppose I promise you that I shall tell Gertrude just what you have suggested. Suppose I do as you advise. And suppose, after two or three months, she decides to take Paul—will that please and satisfy you?”
Her suspicions became full fledged, but she could not see the ambush for all her intent searching. She felt it was there. But she had to be content. Perhaps in this case, she might be mistaken. She smiled, held out her hand to him.
“Yes, if Gertrude is satisfied, if she chooses that way, I’ll be satisfied.”
CHAPTER LXX
Father Aloysius Dominick was now Bishop Dominick of the Philadelphia diocese, and occupied a handsome house behind the city cathedral. He had grown exceedingly plump, florid and genial, deeply concerned with food and the spiritual, not to say material advancement, of the Church. His favorite meal was breakfast, which, coming after ravenous hours attendant on Mass, was really his heartiest meal. He sat down to monstrous platters of bacon and eggs, gigantic cups of coffee, mountains of toast and jam, pitchers of thick wrinkled cream. His first savage hunger satisfied, he liked to look out upon the smooth lawns, now bronze with autumn, and watch the distant street.
He was mildly interested when a station cab drew up near the carriage stone and discharged a sleek broad figure of a middle-aged man; there was something vaguely familiar about that figure, he thought, as the owner marched solidly up the walk toward the house. He moved the curtain a trifle: he must have seen the man in newspapers. Yes, that was it. Photograph of whom? After a puzzled moment, the Bishop rose with a gasp, wildly rang his bell, mopped his face with a napkin.
Within five minutes Ernest Barbour was seated across from the Bishop at the laden breakfast table; fresh platters of bacon and eggs were appearing, fresh cups of coffee, another pitcher of thick clotted cream. “I should have been a priest,” said Ernest, breaking a golden-orange egg with a silver fork.
It was the
pleasantest, and the most filling, of breakfasts. The Bishop was very gay, full of ruby laughter, sly jokes. He had a habit of poking his companion with the blunt end of his knife or fork, to point a witticism. A dozen times he expressed his pleasure at this surprise visit. “It’s been years!” he exclaimed reproachfully. Now, what the devil does he want? he asked himself. I’ll wager it’s something unholy. When Satan visits a priest he doesn’t come as a penitent. But Ernest spoke of nothing except the Bishop’s unchanged appearance, comfortable circumstances, happy table. And I’ll also wager, continued the Bishop to himself, that this visit bodes no good for some poor wretch.
After the breakfast they went into the study. Ernest joined his host in a glass of wine and an excellent cigar. “One thing I like about the Papists,” said Ernest frankly, “is that there is no sanctimonious nonsense about them. They recognize the truth about human nature, and, for the sake of the immortal soul, will allow a few minor sins.”
“That is why the Church will still be standing when all your Protestant little churches will have murdered each other,” replied the Bishop. “Protestantism forgets that men are men, and that there are appetites that it is better to wink at, provided that certain duties are observed. We don’t strain at a gnat and swallow a camel, nor swim in an ocean and drown in a puddle.”
They smoked contentedly for a moment or two, then the Bishop, closely observing the fine gray ash accumulating at the end of his cigar, said: “Of course, you did not seek me out at this late day, Mr. Barbour, for a mere social visit. I do not underestimate you that much. Now, I expect to spend the next few hours very pleasantly with you; so, suppose we come down to business and you tell me just why you have come? Then, that over, we can continue our visit.”
Ernest laughed so heartily that he displayed almost all of his well-preserved white teeth. He liked the direct approach as much as ever. So, without preliminaries, he said: “Have you been in communication at all with the Bouchard branches of our family?”
“Yes.” The Bishop seemed faintly surprised. “Mr. Eugene Bouchard is very charitable—lately. In the past he has been quite thrifty, but lately he has been more than kind. Let me see: it is only six months ago that he visited me here, and we had a pleasant visit. He brought three of his children. Etienne? Honore? Renee? Yes. I could wish for a little more devotion, according to the reports of Father Regan, in Windsor, from the Raoul Bouchard branch, but of course, there are circumstances. However, I have had hopes for young Philippe Bouchard. Several years ago he came here to me, as he had heard I was an old friend of the family. He said it was his intention to study for the priesthood, and when I examined him it did seem to me that he had a vocation. Of course, he was very, very young at that time, hardly more than a boy. Surely he is not more than twenty or so, now? He wrote me regularly for years, and I had high reports of him from the priest. After all, the Bouchard family is very prominent,” went on the Bishop candidly. “So, I followed all their activities with interest. But for the past year or so young Bouchard has not followed up our correspondence, and Father Regan says that he has not seen him at Mass for some time. He investigated, left messages, but it appears that the boy has avoided him.” Interest sharpened on the Bishop’s fat face. “Is it possible you can tell me why?”
Ernest carefully put the tips of his fingers together.
“I don’t know. But isn’t it a rule in your Church that cousins may not marry—first cousins?”
“Yes.” There was a silence, while comprehension, cynical and acrid, began to gleam in the Bishop’s eyes. “You have a daughter, Mr. Barbour, and our young Philippe wishes to marry her?”
“Precisely. And I don’t wish him to marry her.”
The Bishop was silent.
“Oh, I’ve nothing against the boy, personally,” went on Ernest with a broad-minded gesture. “After all, he is my nephew. But I have other plans for Gertrude. Besides, I don’t approve of marriages between cousins—”
The Bishop looked at him directly, and now there was no amusement in him.
“Didn’t I hear a rumor that your daughter was to marry your dead brother’s son, Mr. Barbour?”
There was the smallest pause. “Yes,” said Ernest blandly. Their eyes met and held. Then the Bishop turned just a little aside.
“I see,” he murmured. He tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the table. “I am disappointed in the Barbour branch of your family, your brother’s branch. He was a devoted Catholic, and his children were baptized in the Church. However, they have drifted away. Laws of the Church would never affect them, I know. It is very sad.” His big florid head bent a little. “What did you expect of me, Mr. Barbour?”
Ernest answered readily, and coolly: “I think it would be well to recall young Philippe’s duty to him. As you say, he was once an ardent Catholic. And probably is, still, at heart. If he marries Gertrude, he will eventually be very unhappy, after the first excitement, remembering he has ‘sinned.’ He will make Gertrude unhappy, too. But I’ll be frank with you. That is not the real reason I want this marriage stopped. I have other plans for my daughter.”
“So you enlist religion on your side? Isn’t that a strange ally for you, Mr. Barbour?”
Ernest smiled. “I’ve heard of worse allies,” he answered evasively.
The Bishop stared at him without disguise or apology for a long moment. I wonder what men of his kind think? he asked himself. I expect their thoughts would make unusual reading in the literature of Hell. He felt a little sick. Finally he stood up, stout and impressive in his clerical black, and his face was not friendly, but remote and sad. Ernest had to rise also, irritably aware that something in this priest repudiated him, reduced him to an insignificant stature.
“I’ll write to young Philippe,” said the Bishop, “and ask him to see me. He will come, I know. I’ll do what I can to bring him back to Mother Church, and show him his duty. But not for your sake, Mr. Barbour! Not for your sake! This is a matter between Philippe and his God. You have nothing to do with it.”
Bitter fire had flashed into the fat old man’s eyes, and his heavy pendulous lips shook with some obscure passion. But Ernest guessed that that passion was more human than divine. There was an awkward pause. It had been Ernest’s intention to invite the Bishop to join him in a remarkably fine dinner at his hotel, and to spend a few pleasant hours with him. But even he did not have the effrontery to offer this invitation now.
They parted coldly, and with embarrassed ceremony. Three days later Ernest sent a check for a startling amount to the Bishop, “my belated contribution to your many worthy charities.”
And three days later Ernest received a formal letter from the Bishop thanking him for the check. “I know,” he had written, “that you will be pleased to hear that your money will be used in our Missions to the lepers.”
CHAPTER LXXI
Florabelle was in the midst of a dishevelled attempt to settle a dispute between the hysterical François and his governess, when Gertrude Barbour was announced.
“Oh dear, oh dear!” exclaimed the frantic and upset Florabelle, giving François an agitated push, and immediately goading him to fresh screams and stampings. The governess, a prim Irish girl who had “served the gentry in England,” raised her eyebrows, folded her hands on her dark-blue lap, and assumed a suffering expression. Gertrude, rosy and dark, furred richly against the chill autumn winds, came into the little sitting room as onto a scene of explosions, confusions, and disaster. François was shrilly screaming, and Florabelle was alternately slapping him and trying to soothe him. Though he was eleven years old, he appeared much younger, due to his slight body and small stature, but the brown little wizened face was, in spite of the tears and cries, not young at all. The little sitting room had not been tidied as yet, though it was almost noon of a Sunday morning, nor had the shades been opened to admit the bronze sunlight. Candles burned on the disordered small tables and on the mantelpiece, and books, papers and trinkets lay scattered about in the utmost confus
ion. A great fire roared behind polished bars, making the dark room uncomfortably warm.
“Oh, there you are, Gertrude!” ejaculated the harassed Florabelle, glancing over her shoulder at her niece. “Dear me, do find a chair! What a time to come—! I’m sure if I had expected you—! Is something wrong? You must pardon this mess, with François and all, refusing to eat in the nursery with the little ones, because he thinks he is too old now, and kicking Miss Callahan in the shins—! Do sit down, Gertrude, and stop looking so lost. Is that a new seal jacket? You are looking well. Will you have coffee? We’ve just been having some, the Major and me, but he’s gone out to see if the new mare—François! Will you stop pulling my ribbons?” added Florabelle with a shout and a resounding slap. François obliged by a kick and a shriek. His exhausted mother burst into tears. She looked very young sitting there in her light rose peignoir, her fair curls falling over her plump shoulders. Her face, though cross just now, was flushed and fresh, and her blue eyes were as unblemished as a child’s.
“My God, take him out and smother him!” she cried, utterly overcome, and Miss Callahan, thus given authority to do as she would like to do with François, boxed his ears with ardor, looking, as she did so, as though she had done something which was good for her soul, seized the scrawny arm of the little boy in no mean grip, and hauled him, struggling and kicking, out of the room. His screams ran like tattered streamers behind him, became fainter and fainter as he was dragged upstairs, and were reduced to inaudibility by the closing of a door.
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