“Dear, is it possible it is so late?” she exclaimed, snapping open the case of her watch and glancing at its white face. “Alice isn’t home yet.”
“So I understand. Whatever does she find down at the Norwoods’?”
“Heavens, I don’t know, except that it must be her ‘poetry.’ She wrote something she called a sonnet this morning, and read it to me. Really quite horrible, all about the agony of frustrated love, and mystical attic rooms where she was weeping in loneliness and grief—Well, she’s taken it to François, to correct and criticize.”
“That miserable brown-skinned monkey! I don’t know much about the publishing business, but it does seem to me that a man’s stuff can’t be good if he has to pay for its publication. I don’t like Alice hanging out there with him all the time. It can’t be healthy for a young girl to associate with an ego-maniac with a voice like a sick woman’s and a disposition that would curdle milk. I’m beginning to worry about it.”
“Tosh! Good heavens, Paul, you don’t think there could ever be anything between that silly child and a man old enough to be her father! He’s at least seventeen years older than she is. Don’t be absurd!”
“Don’t you be absurd, yourself, Elsa,” he replied irately. “What I meant was that she should be in the society of young girls like herself, and boys. God, what ideas you do have!”
“Girls her own age?” Elsa laughed shortly. “You know what she thinks about them. ‘Silly, stuffy, giggly, inconsequential, not concerned with the deeper things in life, no souls.’ But what did you want to talk to me about? It must be important or you wouldn’t have called me down before dinner.”
“It is important. Sit down. Why is your face so red lately, Elsa? I don’t believe you get enough exercise, and you eat too much. Now, please don’t get huffy; it’s just a piece of advice from one who’s just as guilty as you are.” He smiled disarmingly, and Elsa’s annoyance subsided, though her glasses flashed. “Yes, it’s important.” And he sketched briefly for her the conversation he had had with his cousins. Elsa was his only confidante, the only creature in the world he could trust. “So, you see, I’ve got to work fast. If—Uncle Ernest is on his last legs, which I hardly believe in spite of that devil Jules, I’ve got to make plans and put them into action. I want you to take Alice to New York next week or so, for a long visit. Stay, of course, at Lucy’s. Take Lucy into your confidence. She’s already spoken of how nice it would be if Thomas and Alice were to marry. Tell her a little what I have told you. Push the business. Throw the children together, and keep Alice there until something serious develops. Damn it, buy Thomas a ‘soul’ if he must have it, and I don’t care what it costs!” They laughed together for a few moments. “The boy’s all right, and he’s mad for Alice. She hasn’t much imagination, and it will take very little to persuade her that Thomas is a philosopher, or something. Coach him in private, show him the way to her silly little heart. He’ll be only too willing; it won’t be the first time love’s made a philosopher out of a pink-skinned hog. Well, he is, you know, Elsa, a perfectly sanitary, scrubbed, affectionate young hog, so don’t be indignant. Take her shopping, buy her anything. Even women with ‘souls’ can’t resist silk stockings and flounced petticoats and furs and jewels and French boots and gloves. I know! Alice likes to protect under-dogs, and after she is half persuaded Tommy has a soul, and he’s touched her pity, you might disparage him, very artistically, of course. Nothing gross, or obvious. Lucy’ll help. She’s got brains. She might even engineer an elopement. Alice’ll like that. Very romantic and dangerous and breathless, apt to arouse annoyance in stuffy old parents and aunts. Well, get her engaged, married if you can. It’s so damned important that my life hinges on it.”
Elsa thought over the plan for a few long minutes as she stared at the great log-fire that smouldered on the hearth.
“I think you’re wrong about Uncle Ernest, Paul. You’ve never had reason to distrust him, you know. Why distrust him now? He’s been marvelous to us, like a father, ever since Mother died. And he hasn’t been the same since she died; gentler, more considerate, in spite of his marrying Aunt May again. His whole life is wrapped up in us and Alice. I think you’ve been letting your imagination run away with you. Why, he’d no more think of Jules Bouchard and all his cut-throat gang of cousins and brothers—”
Paul stood up in a sudden frenzy. His fleshy face flushed a darkish purple. “You talk like a fool and a woman, Elsa!” he exclaimed in a sort of rage. “I know what I know! I know what they’re up to, all the Bouchards, from Jules to Andre and Etienne, and even that germ of a François! And even the Norwoods, Chandler and his senile old father! They’d all cut our throats. I’ve got reason to know this; I don’t speak from imagination or suspicion. Please give me credit for knowing my own business, Elsa!”
Elsa’s plump face became suffused with a rich dark scarlet. “Paul! How dare you talk to me that way! You forget yourself! I’m sure that I’m no fool; I have a brain too, though you don’t seem to realize it. I think you’re wronging poor Uncle Ernest, who’s so old and sick now, and has shown us every kindness and affection. But have it your own way!” She was panting a little, wounded and indignant. Paul looked down at her gloomily. She touched her eyes with a fine white linen handkerchief, then resumed resolutely: “Of course, I’ll do what you wish. I’ve always thought Alice should marry Thomas, who’s the nicest young fellow imaginable. He’ll have ten or more millions some day, when Percy dies. Besides, it’s very dull in Windsor in the spring, and I need some new clothes myself. We’ll go next week.” She stood up and went toward the door with offended dignity. Paul went after her and took her arm.
“All right, Elsa.” He smiled. “I’m a little edgy. Probably I’m all wrong. I apologize. I haven’t the slightest doubt that Uncle Ernest is a nice old lamb who is no longer concerned with business. I’m quite sure that he’s all sweetness and light and will be properly indignant at the scheming of his precious French relatives.” His mouth twisted acridly. “So, I’m forgiven? That’s a nice girl.” He patted the big plump shoulder that strained the sleeve of the starched shirtwaist.
Elsa, only half reconciled, went upstairs. Paul returned to the library fire. He chewed his lip as he stood on the hearth, with bent head. With Alice married to Thomas, and Ernest dead, and with the Van Eyck millions at his, Paul’s, command, he would be able to block the needed credit for expansion to meet the demands which the Barbour-Bouchard Company expected to receive from the Government in its war with Spain, thus making the Bouchard pirates come to terms. Risky, desperate, a bold and audacious game, but he could do it! Paul winced a little at audacity, as usual, but now was the time for it. He would meet that omniscient Jules and would beat him on his own ground. He would risk ruin to ruin Jules. God, how he hated him! But he, Paul, would win. If only he dared consult Ernest, who would find a way! What a ghastly paradox that he dared not consult him!
But Ernest was still alive. He might live on, and on. Paul clenched his fists on the mantelpiece, began to beat the cold white stone slowly and heavily. “Christ!” he muttered, with a low and passionate intensity. “Let him die. Let him die. Holy Christ, let him die—at once!”
He stood there, shaking, for several minutes. Then he relaxed, all at once, and his knees trembled. His hands unclenched on the mantelpiece. His face was wet with sweat. He wiped it, with a sort of absent wonder that he should be so moved. The candles had been lit on the mantelpiece, and lifting his head, he stared at his own face in the dark gleaming mirror over the fireplace. It was haggard, livid, the face of a man who would kill, if necessary. For the fraction of a moment, he was appalled. Then he smiled, a little foolishly.
The dressing gong sounded through the warm stillness of the house.
CHAPTER CVII
Paul loved his daughter, but that did not prevent him from knowing that she was a little fool. When he listened to her, he listened only to the sound of her light breathless small voice, so musical and pretty and child-like, but h
e rarely heard what she had to say. It was usually inconsequential and puerile, full of vanities and nothingnesses, sometimes tinged with a charming and innocent malice.
But tonight, at dinner, he listened to her prattle with a smile and secret intentness. He studied her with new calculation. On this little pretty thing’s unsuspecting shoulders rested all the schemes, dreams and hopes of his life. What dainty little shoulders, what silly little shoulders!
She was so small and child-like, sitting there opposite him, the light of the hanging electric chandelier shining on her face. It shone on the dark-red pompadour which needed no “rats” to bolster up its heavy roll, and made coppery tendrils glitter about the tiny rosy ears. Alice had a small oval face with a dimple in the perfect, pointed white chin, a delicate petal tint in her transparent cheeks, a deep bright pink in her lovely, absolutely vapid little mouth. Her nose was like alabaster, clear and white, with slightly dilated nostrils, the Barbour nostrils. She had big dark-blue eyes, blazing and eager and perpetually excited, with dark-red lashes extravagantly sweeping and curled, and a low white forehead, which bulged like a very young child’s. In fact, everything about her, from the slender bird-like throat, to the small but perfect breast and wee hands and absurd feet, was like a pretty child’s. Even the lacy voile of her shirtwaist, with its inserts of cobweb lace and high boned collar and big velvet black bow at the neck and the jewelled watch on the left breast, and dark-blue serge skirt weighted with braid, could not detract from her infantile appearance. She looked like a little girl dressed up in her mother’s mature clothing, and her habit of wrinkling her forehead and nose when she laughed or frowned added to the impression. Her expressions, though facile and quick and alive, were shallow, though not stupid. She had a thousand little affectations and poses and graces, chief among them being her devout belief that she was an artist, and intellectual.
She ate daintily, and mealtimes were usually nervy affairs of wrangles between herself and her Aunt Elsa about her meagre appetite. Elsa, who served the vegetables, refusing stoutly the assistance of the butler, was apt to heap Alice’s plate with steaming mounds and to insist upon Paul giving the girl an extra slice of beef or chicken, and all the while Alice would keep up a plaintive monologue of protest, sometimes becoming quite tearful. Often they would both appeal to Paul, and he would be irascible or amused, depending on how he felt after his day.
But tonight Alice was too elated to notice the formidable piles on her gold-crusted plate. Her voice was shrill, as it was apt to become when she was excited, and her eyes danced and shone under her lashes with a polished blueness. It seems that François had deigned to approve of her sonnet, and had prophesied that she had finally found her “forte,” which was poetry. Why, he had actually said that in some lines she had surpassed Elizabeth Browning!
“Imagine!” she exclaimed. “Elizabeth Browning!” She simpered, flashed her lighted glance from her aunt to her father. “Of course, that’s all nonsense! But after François corrected it here and there, and gave me one or two suggestions, I had to admit to myself that it was really very good. I’m going to send it to the Ladies’ Home Friend, and if they don’t take it it’ll just prove to me that François was right when he said that publishers weren’t interested in good poetry.”
Paul pursed his lips and pretended to be impressed as he sliced the capon. “You must read it to me, darling—after supper,” he added hastily, as Alice showed symptoms of bounding from her chair and leaping upstairs after her sonnet. “You have quite a lot of poetry lying around, haven’t you? Why don’t you gather it together and take it to New York? Baxter & Company are always interested in good poetry, and I’ve got a little influence with them.”
A curious mixture of expressions struggled on Alice’s face; gratification at her father’s unusual interest in her work, pleasure, excitement, hope, and then, a secretive and embarrassed look. All these were suddenly followed by an odd uneasiness and slight blush.
“I think it would be just as well if I sent them, Papa, dear,” she said in a faint and hesitating voice.
“Why, don’t you want to go to New York?” demanded Elsa in surprise, for Alice had a thousand times declared her fervent passion for that city and her loathing for “small-town” Windsor, where nothing ever happened and artists were unappreciated and suspect. Paul, too, put down his carving knife in surprise, and surveyed his daughter questioningly.
Alice’s uneasiness and embarrassment visibly increased. She had never practiced deceit before, and it came hard to her, not because she was naturally honest and forthright, but because she had had little necessity heretofore to use deception. But she remembered cousin Jules’ light warning that she must be “tactful” and keep her own counsel for a little while with regard to her love for François. So, while the struggle went on in her small, panicked mind, she could only stare helplessly at her father, the color brightening in her cheeks.
Paul frowned, puzzled. “Don’t you want to go to New York?” he echoed his sister.
Alice tried to recover her composure. She began to stammer: “Why, I—I’d love to, but I just thought—I didn’t see why it would be necessary. I—Mrs. Jessup’s giving a party for Estelle this month, a—a spring party, and I promised, I mean, I’d like to go. And Beatrice is having her engagement reception—”
Paul was pleased, though still puzzled. “Well, I’m glad to see you taking an interest again in parties, like a normal little girl. You know, you’ve practically been in retirement since you got this poetry trash—I mean, this poetry passion, on the brain. However, suppose you and your Aunt Elsa go to New York after these heavy social engagements are over, eh?”
Alice was silent. She blinked childishly, her lashes slightly wet.
Elsa began to eat calmly, though an odd hammering began in her chest, and a terrible suspicion formed in her mind.
“To tell you the truth, pettie,” she said smoothly, “I’ve just received a letter from your Aunt Lucy, and she isn’t at all well, and has asked me to come to New York to see her. Naturally, I wouldn’t want to go without you—”
Alice sighed. Then her face brightened just a trifle. “All right,” she said grudgingly, “I’ll go. Perhaps it would be best to see Baxter & Company, in person. You’ll give me a letter of introduction, Papa? And besides,” she added, brightening still more, “I do need some decent clothes. I’m in rags.” She saw herself in fine new stylish clothes, beautiful for François. “For a week or so.”
Dinner proceeded in peace until the wine was brought in. Alice giggled when the Sauterne was poured. “Jules says you don’t know a thing about wines, Papa,” she said, sparkling. “He says no bloody Britisher ever knew anything at all about food or wine, except boiled cabbage and beer.”
Paul flushed. He did not speak until the three glasses were filled, Alice’s being a very small one indeed. Then when the butler had retired, he said, quietly: “In the first place, Jules is quite mistaken: I am an American, not a Britisher. My mother came from an old and illustrious American family. Jules, himself, would always be a foreigner, no matter if he lived here a hundred years. And in the second place, I know considerable about wines.”
Alice was not overawed. She giggled again. “Jules says, anyway, that Sauterne is the beginner’s wine, and that any one who likes Trocken-beerenauslese from the Rheinpfalz is a barbarian. He says that you don’t know a good Liebfraumilch from a bad one, if you even ever tasted any—”
“You are being exceedingly impertinent, not to say ill-bred!” said Elsa in a bad temper. “Almost as ill-bred as Jules, who is certainly no gentleman! Whatever you can see in those Bouchards—!”
“Oh, I think Jules is so amusing, Aunt Elsa! And so handsome! What a Mephistopheles he would make, in red satin and a sword! He’s never ill-natured, and that means so much. All the Bouchards are amusing; they’re so alive, Aunt Elsa! Not stodgy, like us.”
“I must ask you to stop chattering like a little fool,” said Paul, with an enraged glare at his d
aughter. “You know absolutely nothing, for all your prattle about culture. I must ask you not to be so thick with the Bouchards: well, I don’t mind Honore, who is a gentleman, and his family, and Andre isn’t so bad, and his children have breeding, but—Oh, for God’s sake, child, don’t begin to weep! I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings but you are such a foolish little creature. The sooner you go to New York the better—”
Alice wiped her eyes with childish anger. “I suppose you think that horrible Thomas is better than the Bouchards! Well, he isn’t! He’s just a lummox, a dolt, a lump of flesh without a mind—I declare, I simply won’t go to New York if I have to have him at my heels all the time.”
Paul lost control of himself. His fingers clenched on his teaspoon, and rage swelled his face.
“You’ll go to New York whenever I say, my young madam!” he shouted. “And you’ll be a lady, and behave yourself, and treat your cousin decently, and try to find something in him to admire, for, by God—!”
“Paul!” exclaimed Elsa, flashing him an appalled warning. Paul subsided, breathing heavily, still flushed, still enraged. He drank his tea in gulps.
Like so many people with facile and shallow minds, Alice had a sort of quick insight and shrewdness. She knew instantly, now, why she was to go to New York, and what was to be done to her there. She turned as white as the tablecloth, and her beautiful dark-blue eyes dilated in fright and horror. In a sort of sick fascination, she gazed fixedly at her father, even her lips paling. Her life had been so sheltered, so cared for and so careless, so gay and infantile, so without worry or distress of the slightest sort, that this sudden realization wounded her all over, bruised her whole mind.
Dynasty of Death Page 102