Dynasty of Death

by Taylor Caldwell

  “I feel tragic,” said Gertrude miserably.

  May smiled; Gertrude did not see that smile, or she would have been surprised at the irony and sadness and bitterness of it.

  “Tragedies aren’t external and apart from life, Trudie,” May went on gently. “They aren’t visitations. They’re part of living, just as the pleasures are. And most of the time they don’t even disrupt life for very long. We learn, eventually, to receive tragedy like an inevitable and permanent guest, make a place for it in our living, adjust ourselves to it, compromise with it, and then go on, quite calmly, quite accustomed to what once seemed impossible to bear.”

  “Oh, you make me hopeless with such resigned talk!” cried Gertrude passionately. “It’s—so dead, so—so awfully old! Like not fighting, because you are a coward or not young any more. I—I’d never accept tragedy; I’d die fighting it! I just won’t make room for it, or even acknowledge that it can exist in my life—” She broke off, her face wild with despair and fear.

  “Dear me, how unnecessarily vehement you are, Trudie.” May glanced at the agitated girl mildly. “And how absolutely ignorant. I suppose all this excitement is just because Philippe didn’t call last night. Heavens, just because he misses coming one Wednesday night, no doubt because of the perfectly terrible sleet storm we had, so dangerous to horses and carriages and even to walkers, you begin to act like a tragedy queen. In a few minutes your Aunt Florrie will be here with a perfectly common sense explanation, if she even remembers there needs to be one. After all, you must remember how it was last night. I’m sure I wouldn’t have wanted my worst enemy to be out in it.”

  As if driven to look for comfort, Gertrude came toward the fire. She seemed much shaken, and there were humble tears in her eyes as she regarded her mother eagerly. “Mama, perhaps I am a fool. Perhaps you are right. Of course, it was so awful that Philippe had better sense than I have, and decided to stay home. But somehow,” and she wrung her small thin hands together, “I’ve been so afraid lately! It’s been like a cloud over me. Being afraid. Like waiting for something dreadful to happen, that will kill me inside, even if I don’t die outside.”

  May lifted her head sharply and gazed at her daughter. After a moment she said, very gently, though her throat dried in speaking: “You mustn’t be fanciful, darling. The weather has been so bad that it has depressed all of us. Every time I hear the doorbell ring I’m certain it is a herald of disaster. But I try to be cheerful.” She smiled, a little fixedly. “It is our duty not to be overcome by weather. A duty we owe others who have no regard for manners.”

  Gertrude huddled her slight body on a big chair near the fire. She shivered visibly, pushed back her hair. “Dear Mama,” she murmured, with a ghost of a smile, “you believe good manners overcome every evil under the sun, don’t you?”

  “I’m sure they make all evils more bearable,” replied May, laughing. “But aren’t those carriage wheels I hear outside?”

  In a few moments, Florabelle, accompanied by the wizened and gnome-like François, came into the room. She was all ribbons and furs and bangles and chains and curls, all agitated gloved hands, lifted eyes, exclamations and heavy perfume. “What perfectly horrible weather! Darling Trudie, kiss your auntie! May, you look like a grand old dame in that black wool and velvet—so distinguished! I brought François—do you mind? I hope not, for I couldn’t leave the house without him. Such a nuisance, crying and screaming, pretending he has such an affection for me all of a sudden, when all the time he didn’t want to stay in the nursery with Chandler and Betsy. But I can’t do a thing with him! There now,” she cried, seizing on the silent little boy and tugging his clothes into place, “do stay neat and run upstairs to your dear little cousin Joey. Where’s Joey, May?”

  “In the attic. He’s in a bad mood today though, Florabelle. I’m not sure that little Frank will be welcome. However, go on up, my dear, and see. And if your cousin is rude, just come down again here to us.” She laid her hand for a moment very kindly on the boy’s shoulder, and he smiled his strange and twisted smile. He was very fond of May, and she always felt compassionate toward him.

  Moaning a little, Florabelle allowed the maid to carry away her astrakhan jacket, muff and hat. She stood revealed in a gay bright blue gown, elaborately puffed and gathered and draped, with lace cuffs and deep lace collar. Her curls were piled high, and cascaded down very fashionably about her cheeks, which were rich with color. When she moved she tinkled faintly, and her bangles clashed. Unrestricted now by the jacket, the perfume eddied from her in almost visible waves. She stood before the fire, preening and smiling and rubbing her short plump fingers.

  “What a pretty gown,” said May. “I haven’t seen it before. Is it new? I thought so. And how very becoming, with your hair and eyes and complexion.”

  “I like color,” replied Florabelle complacently. She shook out a flounce. “It’s so enlivening. I can’t understand why Trudie wears such dull old-maidish things.”

  “Perhaps it’s because I’m a dull, old-maidish person,” said Gertrude, with a faint smile.

  “Well, I always thought you were a born little spinster,” Florabelle informed her candidly. “You never did seem to have the beaux I had when I was a girl. Gracious, the house used to swarm with them whenever I came home from school! Dear Papa used to say that he fell over young gentlemen whenever he turned around suddenly. I had a dreadful time at cotillions—absolutely crushed. I could never wear a ball gown more than once or twice. Just a wreck afterwards. And the brothers of the girls at school were just too impossible! The headmistress often said, because of the boys’ visits to their sisters, that it was looking more like a young gentlemen’s school instead of a young ladies’.”

  She laughed and sat down. And immediately broke out into renewed exclamations. “Do you know those new horrible Grimshaws, May? The ones from Pittsburgh—new-rich? Well, they are positively too impossible. Climbers. Dreadful people, really, pushing into everything. They think that because they made a few million dollars in that ghastly Pittsburgh they can come here to little Windsor, which is so exclusive, and simply force themselves upon our notice. I’ve received three elaborate invitations during the past month, and of course, just ignored them. Nobody at all will have anything to do with these people. You know, they built that frightful place in Mayfair, thinking if they pushed their way into a fashionable suburb it would help them into society. But nobody sees them or visits them or looks at them.”

  “How lonely it must be for them, poor things,” murmured May. She regarded her sister-in-law with an ironical gleam in an eye that could still dance.

  “Lonely? But they deserve it, May! How tiresome you can be. Who cares if they are lonely? They ought to stay with their own class. That is just the trouble with America—”

  “Yes, we do see odd families coming into society these days,” said May serenely. “I remember how tight our set was when I was a little girl. We allowed no families who had become rich recently to enter our houses. No tradespeople. But it was very silly. And ignorant. We must have been a little comical, with our airs and graces and exclusiveness.”

  “How you do run on, May,” said Florabelle pettishly. “But we simply can’t have nobodies, rich nobodies, and so vulgar, pushing into society.”

  She continued to rattle on with great vivacity, reducing her audience, finally, to complete silence. May crocheted placidly, occupied with her own thoughts, occasionally coming to the surface to smile amusedly at Florabelle and to murmur something inaudible. Gertrude sat and waited, her hands clenched on her thin knee, the veins beating in her throat. But she was more at ease. If anything had gone wrong with Philippe, this gushing well would have flooded forth the information long ago. She stared at the golden fire restlessly, building pictures among the coals that covered the flame with a black fretwork.

  All at once the sound of a name brought her abruptly upright.

  “And as for François,” Florabelle was sighing, “he is such an odd child.
Sometimes I think he will never be able to go into things like Philippe and Leon. But none of my children are strong, except Chandler and Betsy. Sometimes I don’t think my dearest Raoul would have lived long even if he hadn’t gone to war. Now weather never bothers me, but Philippe is feeling so badly today that he didn’t even come downstairs to breakfast or luncheon.”

  “Philippe ill?” Gertrude’s voice sounded as though it had been squeezed in pain from her throat. May put down her knitting and looked concerned.

  Florabelle lifted her eyes despairingly. “Ill? I suppose so. A small cold, but it always seems to make him sick for days. But I warned him last night, knowing he isn’t very strong, not to go out in that sleet.”

  Gertrude could not speak; she could only gaze at her aunt.

  May bent over her needle as if intent. “We rather expected Philippe ourselves last night,” she said, “but concluded when he didn’t come that the weather was too bad. How foolish of him to go out. Unless it was very important.” Not in the very slightest were her last words raised as if in question.

  “Important?” Florabelle was a trifle shrill with ridicule. “We didn’t consider it important. It is really too bad that I gave in to dearest Raoul and had the children baptized Papists. But I was so young at that time, and so much in love. No one will ever know how much I loved Raoul. He was my life! Why, when I got that awful telegram, I thought I’d die, too. Everything went black and dim, and I said to myself: ‘I’m dying. Raoul is dead, and I am dying, too.’ And I was so glad. But time heals all things, they say, and I’m not unhappy now. The Major is one of God’s gentlemen. I tell you, May, no woman could ask for a finer husband, so considerate, so kind, so protective. And he treats me like a daughter! Of course, it’s foolish, but I must admit—”

  “What,” said May in a gentle but incisive voice, “has the fact that the children were baptized Catholics got to do with Philippe going out in the sleet last night and taking cold?”

  Florabelle felt as though she had received a shock. She blinked confusedly at May, her mouth opening in its childlike, somewhat stupid manner. “What? Going out in the sleet? Dear me, May, you do jump from subject to subject! Really, it’s quite disconcerting. I always believe in following a conversation to the end, not jumping around like a frog in a puddle of words. Out in the sleet? Oh, yes. I wish you’d let me finish what I was saying about Philippe. Well, as you probably know, that tiresome priest or bishop who used to live in Windsor but now lives in Philadelphia (though Heaven knows what he would want to come back here for, even for a visit, after Philadelphia), is staying with the present priest of the Annunciation Church. He was a great friend of the family; wasn’t his name Dominick? At any rate he married Raoul and me, and baptized the children. Silly, I thought it, but I was so much in love! Well, he is here, and he wrote a very polite little note to me, recalling himself to my memory—really the most civil and elegant note—I never thought priests were schooled in gentlemanly language, but this one was exceptional. He also mentioned that he had been much interested years ago in Philippe, and that he would like to see him as soon as possible. He mentioned last night, and suggested that Philippe call on him, saying it was quite important. Now what on earth could he want to say to Philippe that was’ important? Philippe used to be so devout, always running to church on Sunday—for Mass or something barbaric like that, though I don’t exactly know what Masses are. Really, he used to drive me frantic, running out at six or seven in the morning, sometimes every day. He used to make something he called Novenas, too—so silly. Once he even said that he would be a priest. (It’s a pity Papa didn’t live to hear that! And it’s a wonder he didn’t turn over in his grave, anyway. Papa hated the Papists so.) But Philippe got over that.” She smiled at Gertrude archly. “I think we have dear Trudie to thank for that! But dear me, child, what an extraordinary color you are! Like clay. I don’t approve of this immoral rouge so many woman are using these days, but I do think just a touch—Gracious, I hope you are quite healthy, Trudie. I wouldn’t want Philippe to be burdened with a sickly wife.”

  “So,” said May, clearly and quietly, “Philippe went to call upon Bishop Dominick last night, in the sleet.” To herself she said: Oh, may God never forgive you, Ernest Barbour! May God never forgive you!

  “Yes. Please don’t interrupt, dearest May. It is so tedious. He went out, though the Major and I laughed at him and warned him. But he was determined on it. And he was looking so badly even then, so pale and sort of set. I remarked on his appearance, and pointed out that he ought not to go, in that awful weather. But he went. He was gone such a long time. I waited up for him. And when he returned, he looked worse than ever. A little wild and breathless, and I knew right away that he had taken cold! He could hardly breathe, and when I went to him, very upset, he waved me away, as if he couldn’t speak, and ran up the stairs and locked me out. I tapped and tapped, and finally he groaned: ‘Mama, please leave me alone tonight!’ And I knew more than ever, from his hoarseness, that he had a very bad cold. Really, that bishop was positively wicked, inducing the poor boy to go out in the storm, and I’ve a good mind to give him a piece of my mind, very lady-like of course, but a terse little note—”

  Gertrude stood up. She looked about her in a disoriented and frenzied way, as though tortured. “I think, Mama,” she said in a high voice, “that I’ll run upstairs and see how Joey and François are getting along.”

  May half started to her feet, the lace slipping from her lap. “Darling,” she said, and the word was a cry, full of compassion and suffering. But Gertrude looked about her again, as if trying to orient herself; she put her hand to her cheek in her old, wavering and pathetic gesture. Then turning swiftly, she ran out of the room. May sat down; nausea climbed into her throat.

  Florabelle was much concerned. “Is Trudie ill, May? Really, she doesn’t look at all strong. Very frail and anæmic. Why don’t you take her to Dr. Brewster? Or give her Blaud’s Pills? They say they are excellent—create good red blood. It is so necessary to married happiness that the wife be healthy. I wouldn’t want Philippe—But you are not looking well, yourself, May. I don’t believe you get enough fresh air. Now the Major believes in exercise, even for ladies, and pooh-poohs the idea of it not being very genteel to have rosy cheeks like mine, and we walk for hours, truly hours, every day. Why don’t you and Trudie do that, too? It would build up the girl.”

  She chattered on in a cloud of phrases and exclamations. May no longer crocheted. She sat in stony and rigid silence, staring at the fire. The chatter was like a welcome wall between her and Florabelle, giving her privacy. Once or twice her pale lips moved, as if in imprecation or pain. She had no knowledge of time or of any one but herself in that room.

  All at once Florabelle jumped up animatedly. “Dear me, it’s almost five o’clock! No, never mind tea, May dearest, though I must say you have never been this forgetful before. I’ve always said you would remember decorum even on your deathbed. Gracious, how dark it is getting! And where is Trudie? She has been gone almost an hour.”

  The clock chimed a slow and melodious five. May regarded it, stupefied. Then she jumped up with the swiftness of a young girl, and without a word to the surprised Florabelle, she ran out into the hall after ringing the bell for the maid. She met the girl in the hallway. “Miss Trudie—?” she murmured, through a thick and closing throat.

  “Yes, ma’am,” stammered the maid, frightened at May’s face. “But she said it was all right. She said I was to tell you at five o’clock that she had just gone to see a sick friend, and not to worry.”

  May clutched her arm. “Did she order a carriage?”

  “No, ma’am. She said it wasn’t far, and not to bother.”

  May’s hand fell from her arm. Florabelle, curious, was peering out into the dim hall. “What is it, May? You look so strange—”

  May turned and forced a smile to pale lips. With a wave of her hand she dismissed the maid. “I just remembered something,” she said easily, leadin
g Florabelle back into the drawing room. “But it seems that Trudie remembered, and has gone to do it, herself. It’s a surprise,” she added with an arch lifting of her brows. “I am so forgetful, lately! It is such a comfort to have Trudie about, to remember.”

  “A surprise?” repeated Florabelle, diverted. “A party?”

  “Well, not exactly. You—you’ll know about it very soon, I think. If it comes out correctly. As I hope it will. But Trudie didn’t wish to disturb us, we were chatting at such a rate. Trudie also has manners,” she added, smiling whimsically. She regarded her sister-in-law affectionately. “Florabelle, that is really the most becoming dress! Where did you say you bought it? Well, now, I might have known it wasn’t a Windsor product. It simply screams Paris.”

  “Seventy-five dollars,” said Florabelle proudly, turning slowly about to give May every possible view. “I always say it pays to buy good things.”

  May sent for François. She helped the chattering Florabelle into her jacket, loudly admired its excellence. Will she never go? she thought desperately. But finally Florabelle went in a flutter of words and ribbons and veil and skirts, scolding François constantly as they went out of the house to their carriage. The door closed behind her in a last confusion of messages and hand-waving. May went back to the drawing room. The house lay in deep pre-dinner hush, though the faint rattle of silver could be heard at a distance. May heard Joey’s voice upstairs.

  For a long time she stood there on the hearth, gazing at the fire. She touched her forehead. It was quite cold and wet. The muscles in her cheek twitched convulsively. Once she put her hand to her breast, and gasped aloud. The clock ticked on, chimed the half hour. May still stood there. The fire began to burn itself out, and the room fell into shadow. She did not light the candles. The clock struck six. And the outer door opened and Ernest came into the house, his greatcoat and hat covered with crystal drops.