May had tried for days to find Paul alone, where she might talk to him without Ernest’s suspicion or Gertrude’s knowledge. She found the opportunity tonight. He had gone, after dinner, to the little back parlor where Gregory had kept boxes of old books and accounts. He had brought some books from the bank, and had carried them to this unused small room; the library oppressed him, for some reason, and his bedroom did not seem to him the proper place for his work.
May followed him into this room. He had just sat down and spread his books upon a scarred old black walnut table, and lit a lamp and trimmed his pen, when his mother-in-law came in softly, closing the door behind her. He frowned uneasily; he did not like May and knew that she had no liking for him in return. But he stood up courteously and offered her a chair. Before she was quite seated, he had already resumed his own chair. He picked up his pen, frowned at it, and signified in every way that he was exceedingly busy. But he was also curious; he wondered what the old girl wanted of him.
She smiled benignly, and studied him furtively for a few moments, gauging what she could from that handsome face with the almost pouting lower lip, the short square nose and averted eyes.
“Paul,” she said, and she tried to make her voice affectionate, “I’ve wanted to talk to you alone for a little while. This is the first chance I have had. After all,” and she laughed gently, “you and I are more than mother-in-law and son-in-law. You are also a blood relative. My cousin was your grandmother, you know.”
“Yes.” He was more amiable now, and returned her smile. “What are we, Aunt May? Third cousins? What a mixed-up family we are!”
“Your grandmother, Paul, was a lovely young lady. I remember her quite well, though she was a grown woman while I was still a little girl. It seemed to me that she was the most beautiful thing in the world. Her eyes were violet-blue and she had chestnut curls hanging down on white shoulders, and a small short nose. Do you know, I’ve often thought that you looked much like her.”
“My mother has said that before,” answered Paul, pleased. He put down his pen, and regarded May with more graciousness.
Her face changed, and she leaned a little toward him. “Paul, I want you to tell me something. Please don’t shut your mind away from me. This is so important. Lately I’ve thought you somewhat depressed and irritable. And I’ve had an idea it wasn’t just business. Won’t you tell me what it is?”
He looked away from her, sidelong, angrily. His native wariness and suspicion jumped up, alert. In all his life he had never had a confidante, with the exception of his twin, Elsa, and even with her he had been watchful and reserved. He could not break the habit of a lifetime, a congenital habit, so easily. It was not his nature to trust any one, to believe any one simple and selfless, so he began to wonder, as he sat in stubborn silence before May, just what she was “getting at,” and what she hoped to discover or gain.
And yet, bewilderingly even to him, he wanted to speak. May had risen from her chair in great agitation, and was now standing beside him. He glanced up at her sullenly, and his heavy lips parted a trifle. She clasped her hands together and bent over him.
“Paul! I’m Trudie’s mother. Remember that; she is my child. What is wrong with her? I know you feel it, too, and as you are her husband, you ought to be able to tell me. I can’t stand seeing her so, Paul, so silent, such a dreadful color, so docile and lifeless. As if—as if part of her had—died—”
He moved his head a little; the movement signified thick and impatient pain. He lifted his hand to make a gesture, then the hand fell to the desk again. “She cries in her sleep,” he said, and was alarmed at what he had said. A dark wave of color washed over his face, and he glared at May angrily.
“Oh.” The sound, coming from May’s lips, was like the sound one makes when struck violently in the chest. She moved back to her chair like an old woman, and sat there, haggard and white, gazing at him. The young man got quickly to his feet, clenched his hands behind his back, and began to walk up and down the room. He could not restrain himself now; he could not have kept himself from speaking. He stopped abruptly in front of May, and she saw the twitching muscles about his mouth.
“There are other ways of doing things!” he exclaimed, as if the words were forced from him. “You don’t need to sneak about—in personal things. Business is different. But not when it concerns—when it concerns girls like Trudie—”
There was a silence. Then May said softly: “Oh, then you know, Paul?”
“Yes. But I didn’t know until just before I married Trudie. Only an hour before.”
“Paul!” The cry from May was full of horror. “Trudie doesn’t know?”
“No.”
May was silent a moment. “Paul, I told Gertrude’s father that if he hurt her I would leave him, leave this house forever—”
Distaste made Paul wince, and his expression became cold once more. “Leave Uncle Ernest?” This was blasphemy; Paul felt degraded at the thought that a woman of his family could become depraved enough to consider leaving her husband! There were certain women that did abhorrent things like this, but one did not speak of them in mixed company or before the females of one’s family. He was amazed that May did not realize the enormity and shame of her own words; it astounded him that her face was quite calm and steadfast. Perhaps she was not herself? Females frequently were not “themselves.”
“Certainly. And I intended to do so. Then when Trudie married you, and I learnt in a roundabout way that she did not know her father was responsible for it all, I knew I could not leave him. To do so would enlighten her, and probably do terrible things to her. So, I am staying, for her sake.”
Paul picked up his pen and began to tap his desk with it, gloomily. He said nothing. He still seemed offended as at an appalling breach of taste.
“My dear,” said May gently, after a few moments, “perhaps it might turn out well, at last. Be good to my poor child. We, her parents, can do nothing for her now. It lies in your hands.”
He was touched in spite of himself, as he was always touched at any reference to Gertrude. A rare animation flashed indignantly into his eyes. “Be good to Trudie? My God, I love her!” And ashamed again of his emotion, he clamped shut his mouth and the line of his jaw sprang out.
I was mistaken, thought May. He is not like Ernest at all. But Ernest will eventually corrupt him as he has always corrupted people. It’s as though he were afflicted by some frightful disease which he involuntarily gives to others. She sighed. Paul had covered with his hand the part of his face that was turned to her, as if to shut out her eyes. She put her hand on his shoulder after she had moved beside him again; she pressed that shoulder, and forced into her voice a humorous lightness and affection.
“And eventually, I know that Trudie will love you, Paul. Fancies—change. Gertrude was always reticent and never had the silly flirtatious love affairs that young girls have, and Philippe—he was her first fancy.” She paused. Paul gave no sign; the shoulder was unyielding under her hand.
She moved toward the door. “It is too bad, my dear, that you aren’t going with us to New York to hear Frey’s symphony. We shall miss you.”
Paul dropped his hand. He was already disgusted and apprehensive because of his involuntary outbreak. He scowled, as May turned at the door.
“I think it mighty peculiar that he doesn’t want to come home for Christmas,” he said.
“But, my dear, if you remember his letter, he says that there are final matters to be arranged and details to be seen to. After all, he only arrived in New York this morning. Yes, this morning! And the concert is to be given December 28th. Frey is a little difficult sometimes, but he must have a reason for requesting us not to come to New York until the day of the concert. After all,” she added with a placating and humorous smile, “it is the artistic temperament, perhaps.”
“Artistic temperament! Just plain ugly selfishness.” All Paul’s inherent dislike of his cousin roughened his voice. “Mark my words, he’s been up
to something.”
The idea of the cold, dreaming, aloof Godfrey being “up to something,” amused May. She laughed almost gaily as she went out. But before she closed the door they both heard a loud authoritative voice. “Elsa!” exclaimed Paul, bright with pleasure. He got up, closed his book, and followed May back into the family living room.
They found Elsa planted squarely on the rug before the fire. She had declined to remove her fur cape, and its dark richness was flecked with snow. Her round fur hat, set straightly on her head (no coquettish tilts for Elsa!) was rimmed with melting whiteness. Her hands were still thrust through her muff; she had refused a chair. She stood there on the hearth, buoyant, rosy, dominating, and dripping. Standing there, big and broad-shouldered and vigorous, she was like a wholesome Amazon. She bent down and pecked May’s cheek, and bestowed a hearty and smacking kiss upon her beloved brother’s mouth. Then she stepped back and looked at him. Her face was smoother than Paul’s, and slightly smaller, but otherwise the two faces were identical, from forthright, slightly choleric blue eyes to square and aggressive chins.
“Do sit down, Elsa,” said Paul.
“No. I’ve only a moment or two.”
“Are you alone, my love?” asked May, seating herself near the faintly smiling and silent Gertrude.
“Alone? Of course! I love to walk out in the air and the snow and the wind and the night. Hardly any one is out, the poor sickly things, and it is so nice to walk quickly through the deserted streets. I love it.”
“That’s why you have such hard red cheeks,” smiled Ernest. He had laid aside his paper, and seemed pleased that Elsa had come.
“I’ll never have to paint my face, that’s certain,” replied Elsa complacently. “No, Aunt May, I don’t want to sit down. I really must rush back. Mama is quite alone; John Charles is out tonight, too.
“I just wanted to tell you that I’d like to go with you and Uncle Ernest and Trudie to New York to hear Frey’s music. Why, I haven’t seen Lucy for ages! She hardly writes since her little Thomas was born. I’ve just got to see him. So, I’ve written today and told her to expect us all on December 27th.”
May flushed, but her voice was quite equable as she replied: “But, my dear, we’ve already arranged to stop at the Astor Hotel—”
“Stuff! Why, with Trudie’s own sister-in-law in the city, your own niece, Aunt May! I think it quite insulting. Lucy would be insulted, too. After all, she has an eighteen-room house, and just a legion of servants, and her dear Percy Van Eyck has a fortune that makes ours look like two cents. Please don’t be obstinate. You know that Lucy has invited all of us dozens of times, and Uncle Ernest is the only one who has taken advantage of the invitations.” She swung on Ernest. “Has she, or has she not, the most gorgeous home in the world, Uncle Ernest?”
He smiled, raised his brows. “It is quite commendable,” he said in a casual voice, to tease her.
“Pshaw, you always were a torment, Uncle Ernest!” She thrust her damp muff playfully into his dodging face. “You know it is magnificent. I didn’t believe it at first, but the Van Eycks are really the cream of the elite in New York. When I was there I felt like royalty, being Lucy’s sister. Mrs. Van Eyck, Percy’s mother, is a regular old dowager, and, Uncle Ernest, you must know her brother, Jay Regan? The financier?”
“I know him slightly,” said Ernest, with a wink at Paul.
“Do stop teasing me! I remember now that he spoke of you. Quite civilly—”
“I’m sure I’m grateful,” said Ernest.
“Tush! Everyone in the whole country, probably in the whole world, knows you. Well, Lucy’s home on Fifth Avenue is just a palace. I could see that even Mama was impressed, and you know how Mama is: so unimaginative. Nothing ever impresses her much. I believe she wouldn’t notice it if our house were turned into a log cabin overnight.”
“I wouldn’t think of inconveniencing Lucy,” said May. “And on such short notice, too. It is not only imposing and rude, but—”
“Dear Aunt May, please don’t be so formal. Besides, I’ve already written to Lucy.”
“And very wrong of you not to consult me first.” May seemed really annoyed.
“Nonsense.” Ernest moved irritably in his chair. “Tempest in a teapot. Perhaps Elsa was a little hasty, but I’m sure it is very thoughtful of her. Lucy’s hospitality will be much better than a hotel’s, and I, for one, am pleased at the arrangement. Lucy is nothing if not hospitable.”
All the color had gone from May’s face; her lips were so compressed that they were just visible as a straight white line. She glanced from Ernest to her niece and thought: So Frey is to be sacrificed to these young beef-eaters, too! But not my son! Not my son, my darling!
Ernest had begun to tease Elsa about Godfrey. “Don’t be a hypocrite, my girl. You don’t care a damn for Lucy’s baby. It’s Frey you’re after! Well, no doubt he’ll find you a bouncing big armful. You eat too much.”
Elsa had turned decidedly red, but her eyes sparkled. “I do not! Besides, majestic women are quite the thing now. I’m sure I’d like to see Frey. I’ve been pretty bad, not writing to him as much as I should have done, but I’m hoping he will forgive me. But New York is so marvellous this time of the year. I adore the shops. Lucy says the shopping center is moving up from Fourteenth Street, Aunt May.”
“Indeed,” murmured her aunt.
During all this time Gertrude had not spoken one word, not even to her young husband, who had seated himself near her and had placed his arm along the back of her chair. She was looking into the fire; its redness shone on the small triangular face, vividly lighting the new weary patience of the colorless mouth, the transparency of the pinched nose, the long thick lashes that hid the still and heavy eyes. The dark cloudy hair was loosened childishly over her forehead and cheeks; her little hands, open and palm up, lay defenselessly on her sharp young knees.
When Elsa spoke to her loudly, she jumped, and turned bemused and frightened eyes to her cousin.
“Dear me, Trudie, whatever are you dreaming about?”
Gertrude smiled, and to her father that smile seemed enormously pathetic.
“I’m so sorry, Elsa. I know I’ve been quite rude. But to tell you the truth I was trying to decide what to get Mama for Christmas. Even at this late day I haven’t decided yet.”
Elsa made her good-bys. She was in high good humor, and excited. May accompanied her into the hall.
“What’s the matter with Trudie?” asked Elsa in a stage whisper that carried quite easily to the ears of those in the drawing room. “Is it possible that she is already enceinte?”
Ernest glanced furtively at his daughter. Her face had turned quite sick.
CHAPTER LXXIX
Reginald and Guy Barbour arrived home from their respective schools the day before Christmas. Guy was overjoyed at his release, and even the dour Reginald, or Reggie, condescended to relax. Reginald, being neat and orderly, did little to disrupt the routine of the household, but one might have thought a whole school of youths had been let loose, to judge by the noise and excitement Guy created.
“Imagine you going off and marrying that stuffed shirt, Paul!” he said with winning candor to his sister. “I thought you were all for Philippe. Say, did I tell you Philippe can jump aces and spades over the best jumpers at school? And he’s gone to be a priest! Well, all I can say is it’s beyond me. Maybe you jilted him, eh? I wouldn’t put it beneath you quiet pusses.”
Reginald, the gloomy and reserved, expressed himself in very measured terms, in a voice and manner suggestive of a middle-aged clergyman: “Paul Barbour is most certainly not the man I would have chosen for you, Gertrude. There is not the slightest touch of godliness in him. But this age is all for the things of the world, so I suppose he has his place in it.”
At this, Gertrude smiled her first-unforced smile since her marriage.
“You both do Paul a sad injustice,” she said. “But remember, boys, he’s not only your cousin, now, but your brothe
r-in-law.”
“That won’t make him loosen up any,” averred the frank Guy. “Last Christmas he gave me a pair of brushes that began to shed hair practically immediately, like a mangy dog. Now they’re as bald as an egg. He’s liable to give me a gold-plated watch fob that’ll turn green within twenty-four hours, this year. Where’s the bright green chain he gave you last Christmas, Reg?”
Reginald smiled involuntarily. He so rarely smiled that he seemed like a stranger when he did so. “I gave it to our bootblack,” he said. “But I believe he thought very little of it as I found it in the hall waste-basket the next morning.”
While his brother had been speaking, Guy had been studying with interest his sister’s pale drawn face and heavy eyes.
“Say, you’re not going to have a baby already, are you?” he demanded.
It was Reginald, not Gertrude, who blushed furiously. In fact, Gertrude laughed when she saw Reginald’s color and expression.
“What ideas you do get for a boy, Guy!” she exclaimed.
“What an immodest thing to ask a lady!” said Reginald, with a black and censorious glance at his younger brother.
“Blah! What’s immodest about a baby? You’re an old woman in pants, Reg. Say, Trudie, do you know what they call old Reg at his school? I have it direct from Chetlow, whose brother’s with Reg. They call him Rainy.”
“Rainy?” Gertrude was diverted. “What for?”
Reginald’s color had become purplish, and the fire in his eye was dangerous and ugly. For one moment he was startlingly like his father. He jumped at Guy agilely, but that gay youth bounced blithely out of his clutch and shouted at Gertrude as he dodged in a corner: “Old Rain-in-the-pants! And I dare Reg to tell you why!”
Gertrude blushed, laughed uncertainly. Reginald was able, by a dexterous move, to capture his brother, and began to cuff him with an enthusiasm not at all in keeping with his usual poise and dignity. Guy returned the assault with interest, and the two youths fell to the floor with a great clatter, and began to roll over and over together in a welter of flying arms and legs. Gertrude pulled up her slim legs and skirts upon the window seat and watched the noisy fight with a large amount of pleasure. Seated thus, her thin arms hugging her shins, her chin on one knee, she looked young again, and almost happy, for her sunken eyes sparkled amusedly, and she laughed.
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