As she spoke, her cousin had a sudden and aching vision of the clear dim twilight of England in the Spring. As vividly as though he gazed at it with his physical eye, he saw the soft green hills against the dreaming silence of the heliotrope sky. He saw the low and peaceful valley with its low white farmhouses. He smelled hawthorn and the fresh scent of the fields and heard the distant tinkling of gentle cow-bells. He heard the faint calling of lambs and the melancholy answering of the ewes, echoing in the tender stillness. Ah, England, England! thought this young Irishman, who had never seen the land of his forebears.
Did these children remember, with pain? Laurie was sleeping on Angus’ shoulder, and the boy was staring mournfully through the window of the coach. Stuart was suddenly startled. There was the most remote and absorbed expression on the lad’s small and quiet face, as if he saw nothing of the wild and desolate scene outside. His face was the face of a dreamer, unchildlike, still, and heavy with sorrow.
Bertie was dozing, with an amiable smile curving his lips. Stuart smiled a little, involuntarily. He was already fond of Bertie, who laughed so much and never complained, no matter how weary he was. The lad found everything humorous; his good temper never failed. His ruddy hair lay dishevelled over his handsome head. There were several deep dimples trembling near his lips, though he was dozing comfortably and unconsciously.
When Stuart glanced at Robbie, his smile grew broader. For Robbie was trying to read by the failing light. Stuart observed to himself that the lad was always reading. Robbie read coolly and methodically, withdrawn in himself. Yet he did not give the impression of being a scholar. There was a purposefulness in his reading, an unpleasant concentration. Stuart tried to crane his neck far enough to catch a glimpse of the title of the book. Then he was astonished, and highly diverted. The title was: “Famous Cases at Law at the Assizes at Old Bailey.”
Law! Stuart began to chuckle to himself, but he eyed Robbie with more interest, and a curious and wary dislike. A sprig of a lad like this! His dislike grew.
CHAPTER 6
On the morning of the next to the last day the hills had become lower, like walls in the distance, but the cold was more intense. Now all about them lay flat land, stark and black and motionless as death. Settlements were thicker, however, and little towns and villages. Janie, assured that the long journey was almost done, became very interested. She had not heretofore questioned Stuart much about his home or his affairs. She had been too intent on ingratiating herself with him, of amusing, diverting and fascinating him. Now she began to eye him with furtive speculation, though, when he turned to her suddenly, she smiled charmingly.
She must know all about him. Grandeville—what manner of city was this? Stuart explained. A raw and overgrown village, rather than a city. But boisterous and vital, expanding rapidly, situated on the bleak and brawling waters of Lake Erie. Here it was that the famous Wells-Fargo Express had originated. (Eighteen of Janie’s trunks had already gone ahead to Grandeville on that express, much to Janie’s bewildered admiration.) A bustling town, this Grandeville, the point of exchange between the unfathomable West and the East. Traders were here, and shippers came and went constantly, arranging passage for themselves and their goods on the Great Lakes. Yes, said Stuart, to one of Janie’s inquiries, one could see Indians there, coming and going silently, and across the narrow channel of some outlandish river one could catch glimpses of Canada. Canada! Janie felt comfort. An outpost of England still flying the old Union Jack! Ah, it was guid, it was guid, she said, again with the accent of her fathers, which always returned to her in rage, under stress, and at the height of emotion. Stuart promised to hire a boat and take her to Canada at the first opportunity.
He warned her, however, that she would not find that finished and urbane quality of English towns in Grandeville. It was a raw and uncouth hamlet, though bustling and riotous and full of the air of commerce, and the sound of wild growing. The streets were not yet cobbled; they were filled with mud, and the walks were of splintered and tilting wood. Most of the houses were of wood, also, and ugly as hell, he told her frankly. Only a few of the houses were of brick, or stone, and, he added complacently, his own house was one of them. “With a fine view of the river, too,” he said.
But Janie, her heart beating faster at his depiction of Grandeville, of savage men fighting for new gold in this new land, of “saloons” and raucous women and raw drink, of struggle and vehemence and strangeness, was not at all depressed at the picture Stuart drew for her. She was a natural, adventuress, without delicacy and shrinking. She felt her blood stir. She listened with delight to the tales Stuart told her of his house. It was filled with mahogany, he bragged, gently, and fine rugs from the Orient, and she would be “at home” there. “We aren’t entirely uncivilized,” he boasted, “and we aren’t exactly a frontier settlement. Why, Grandeville is old, for America! The British burnt it in 1812, and it was old, then.” When he spoke of the wild and untamed West, it was with patronage. Grandeville was very cosmopolitan. Janie would find Germans there, as well as Indians, and a Jew or two, and peculiar folk from Eastern Europe, peddlers and shopkeepers, tailors and artisans, all enthusiastically working to transform Grandeville into a roaring city of commerce.
He told her of two of his friends, a Catholic priest called Father “Grundy” Houlihan, and Sam Berkowitz, a German Jew, and a rival shopkeeper. Janie raised her sandy eyebrows, and shrugged, regarding her cousin with a superior wondering smile. “A Papist!” she exclaimed. “And a Jew! O my God, my darling Stuart!”
Stuart was annoyed. “Damn it, you’re half Irish yourself, my elegant little besom!” he said. “Your mama was a Papist, remember, and so was my papa.” As for Sam Berkowitz, by God! he was a man of genius, and a devil at poker, and could beat Father Houlihan eight times out of ten. The three of then spent almost all their evenings together, and damn pleasant evenings they were! They, his friends, were men of sense and shrewdness. He, Stuart, would be desolate without then, with not a damned soul of any intelligence to console his leisure hours.
Yes, he acknowledged, angrily, there were “gentlefolk” in Grandeville, also, but as dull and dead as a cold herring. There was, for instance, Joshua Allstairs, a grasping old swine who had mortgages on almost all the property in Grandeville. An Englishman! Who could expect anything better of Englishmen? Stuart’s face was deeply flushed when he mentioned Mr. Allstairs, to whom he owed ten thousand dollars.
“And no ladies of elegance and fashion?” asked Janie, slyly, watching her cousin with acuteness.
Stuart was silent. The flush did not recede from his face. And then his eyes began to twinkle. He winked at Janie. “Ah, there are, indeed!” he murmured. “A fine house of them, and the ladies very gay and handsome.” He coughed, significantly. Janie squealed coyly, and lifted a mittened hand to her face, and over her fingers she peeped at him with ribald modesty. Then she gave him a sharp and painful jab, and croaked: “You dog!”
She asked him if they ever gave any “balls” in Grandeville, and with defiance Stuart assured her that many “soirees” were held, that the music was excellent, and the toilettes of the ladies truly remarkable. “We have quite an aristocracy. The ladies import their gowns from Paris, itself, by God!”
He also told her that Grandeville was a city of the “Underground,” to which escaping slaves of Southern planters fled on their way to Canada. “A thriving business,” he added, with some regret. In order to impress Janie he told her of the Virginia cavaliers, of the fine gentlemen and stately gracious homes of the South. “We’ll go there, some day, on a visit,” he said, and continued mysteriously: “I have plans. It was only a month ago that Sam suggested something—Of course, it is not thought out, yet, but the idea is very exciting. Sam is full of ideas.”
Then he became curiously silent, and watched Janie with tentative thoughtfulness. Sometimes he smiled, and his black eyes would sparkle with something like malice. In some way, he communicated his thought to Janie, for she became very ca
reless as she said:
“And, my love, you’ve found no lady of your own, yet?”
Stuart coughed. He pretended to shyness. He looked away from his cousin.
“No,” he murmured, thoughtfully, “though Miss Marvina Allstairs, the only daughter and darling of old Joshua, appears much smitten with me. And she is a young lady of fortune.”
At this, Janie was sick with consternation. She regarded Stuart searchingly. But the rascal only hummed pleasantly to himself.
As he had much regard for Janie, after all, he was suddenly depressed. He had anticipated this moment with malicious pleasure. He looked forward to watching Janie’s face when he told her of Miss Allstairs. It would be very amusing, he thought. But now it no longer appeared amusing. Janie had come a long distance to him; she had brought these miserable young puppies with her across the endless miles of ocean. Then he was angered against her, in his self-protectiveness. Surely to God she had not seriously believed that a man seven or eight years her junior could become her suitor, for all their earlier years together! Surely she had not thought that childhood associations and a present considerable fortune could make him overlook her age, her children and her unvirginal state! It was damned impudent of Janie, and shameless! And very insensible, too, and brazen! Janie was a fool.
But Janie, herself, was speaking, her hoarse voice sly and soft:
“Is Miss Marvina a great beauty, then?”
Stuart made his face serious and meditative; he made his mouth curve gently. He did not look at Janie when he said: “Indeed, that she is! A rare beauty. A young lady of consequence, and very accomplished.”
Stuart thought of the loathsome Joshua Allstairs, who had not looked very kindly on his suit. Joshua was an Englishman, who hated all foreigners, and particularly hated Irishmen, whom he contemptuously considered slightly lower than “niggers” and Indians. He had permitted Stuart in his house only because the young man was aggressive and had the gift of making money, and despite his race was no Papist. Moreover, old Joshua loved to play whist, and Stuart was an accomplished player, and also knew good whiskey from bad, and was no mean opponent at chess. Stuart, seeking to ingratiate himself, had invented all manner of Irish and Scottish illustrious forebears, and even a “County seat.” Mr. Allstairs, who had no forebears except shopkeepers and small artisans in London, had been unwillingly impressed, especially by the “County seat.” “My father was a North Irishman,” Stuart had grandly lied, “and an indirect descendent of Lord MacIlleney. My cousin, the present young Lord, frequently visited my parents in England. He is married to the Hon. Amelia Courtney, whose father, Lord Devonshire, is very potent in the House of Lords.” He had added, believing in the principle of being hung for a sheep: “Dickie—that’s my cousin, Lord MacIlleney, has vowed to visit me in America, and you will find him very gracious and condescending.”
Still, old Joshua, who jealously guarded his lovely Marvina, was dour on the subject of Stuart’s suit. One could not get away from the damning fact that Stuart was Irish, and it was well-known that the Irish were an inferior race, and schemers, and liars, and cutthroats and thieves and vagabonds. Worse, they were still under the influence of their abominable and bloody Church, and worshippers of “graven images.” (Joshua was a very devout Presbyterian.) Despite all Stuart’s advantages as a suitor, his skill at whist and chess, his expanding fortune and his elegance and gracious manners and wit, Joshua gloweringly hesitated. He had made a huge fortune in this hated America, by reason of the fact that he was, himself, a thief, a charlatan, an exploiter and a ruthless scoundrel. He had intended to return to England with his only child, his darling, and marry her off to some nobleman, or at least to gentry.
Stuart thought of all these things, and his gay and lively face darkened somberly. Janie saw this. Her sinking heart rose. Her queasy stomach relaxed. She wet her lips, and studied her cousin craftily. Then all was not sunshine and roses. Her courage and will, always stupendous, rallied to her assistance. While there is life there is hope, she thought, smiling inwardly. Stuart had said little of Joshua Allstairs, but the subtle and crafty Janie had learned enough from his expression to guess that the suit was not regarded by the old man with overmuch favor. Janie’s mind continued its spiderlike spinning, and now a dreamy smile touched her lips.
She changed the subject, amiably. She was all affable and naughty jokes again, bestowing vigorous slaps and arch glances upon Stuart, until she had him laughing once more, and delighting in her.
Later that night, through the thin rough wooden walls of the hotel, Stuart heard the sound of Janie’s shrieking and blasphemous voice, the crash of blows upon some silent victim, and then Laurie’s high and terrified cry: “O Mama, Mama, you’ve hurt him! Don’t hit him, Mama!”
Stuart understood. Boiling with impotent rage, he could only despise himself for the suffering inflicted upon the helpless little Angus and his sister for his, Stuart’s, fault. A dozen times he could hardly restrain himself from bursting into Janie’s rooms and striking her violently, and rescuing the children. Then he shrugged, despairingly. There was no use at all. He could do nothing.
But he muttered over and over, through his clenched teeth: “Oh, the trollop! Oh, the bitch!”
All his pity for Janie was gone. He hated her virulently now.
CHAPTER 7
Long before dawn, on the last day, Stuart uneasily awakened from his dozing and moved himself with considerable painfulness on the leather seat of the couch. Anxious to return to his home, he had, after consultation with Janie, decided not to stop off at any hostelry for the last night, but to continue the journey in order to arrive at Grandeville before sunset.
The close and dusty air in the coach was bitterly cold and penetrating. Despite rugs heaped over his legs, Stuart was chilled and miserable. There was a faint moon in the black sky, a recumbent crescent of a moon, and brilliant stars. By their light he saw the humped and huddled forms of Robbie, Angus and Laurie lying under their own rugs on the opposite seat. The children slept in attitudes of complete abandonment and exhaustion. Stuart could not see their shadowed faces, but a long strand of Laurie’s golden hair glimmered in the wan light. Beside Stuart slept Janie, leaning against him, and beside her, her darling, Bertie.
There was no sound but the rumbling of the coach on the rough road. Even the coachmen drowsed on their boxes, lulled to sleep by the darkness and the wooden wheels and the soft thud of the horses’ hoofs. Once in a while the harness jingled dimly. The coach rolled like a boat; the windows rattled a little in their frames; the doors squealed gently.
Stuart was suddenly and horribly depressed. His volatile nature was either high and jubilant, or sunken into black depths. Accustomed though he was to these curves of exhilaration and despondency, he thought each a permanent state whenever he was engrossed by it. Now he was certain that this heavy melancholy was to be his for all eternity. He moved heavily and tried to peer through the mud-stained window. He saw nothing but the dark and shining heavens, the formless flat darkness of the earth. He sighed, pulled himself cautiously away from Janie, who grumbled in her sleep, and leaned against the side of the coach.
The sick and nameless despair of the Celt fell on him like a crushing weight. He had long learned that it was useless to search for a cause, or at least a significant cause. The smallest things were often enough to plunge him into profound dejection. Large and formidable events often exalted him, for they were matters which he could grapple with and overcome. They never depressed him. It was the gnat in the ear, the slight prick of the flesh, the way the wind blew, or the look of the sky, or a word, or a glance, or, sometimes, even the movement of a woman’s skirt, that had the power to overwhelm him with that mysterious horror of complete depression, which was wordless and reasonless. Sometimes he thought he was going mad.
Not being reticent, he had complained volubly of these states of mind to his friends, Father “Grundy” Houlihan, and Sam Berkowitz.
“Weltschmerz,” said Sam, si
ghing. He had explained the word to the impatient Stuart, who had laughed contemptuously and noisily. “World-sickness!” It was laughable. What had Stuart Coleman to do with “world-sickness?” He loved the world very much, and found it full of enjoyment.
Father Houlihan had said, soberly: “It’s the soul in ye, Stuart.” Stuart had laughed hardly less contemptuously than he had laughed at Sam. His soul! By God, he had nothing but his strong young body and his appetites, and if he had a soul it was hidden in him like a sleeping seed, or a small stone, and as far as he cared it could remain that way. “I do nothing I later regret, for I do nothing I could regret,” he said, feeling quite clever, and winking at the priest.
He now thought his two friends very dull, and very old, though Father Houlihan was less than ten years his senior, and Sam only seven. Stuart was already patronizingly referring to others as “foreigners.” “Foreigners” in his opinion were those who were less concerned with making money than they were with their own minds and their memories.
Hideously wide-awake now, he went over the events of the recent days. He saw little Laurie’s bright hair, the boys’ faces. Then he clenched his fists. It all came back to Janie.
I never think, he said to himself, with rage. I get myself into the damndest scrapes, and then wonder afterwards how they occurred. I’m a fool, by God! What am I to do with her? I’ve run from responsibility to others all my life; I’ve cavilled at marrying. I’ve gracefully skirted the slightest threat of involving myself with others and their problems. Yet, here I am, with this strange woman, and her children. What am I to do? I never thought she’d take me seriously.
It bewildered and infuriated him to remember that he had been pleased when Janie had written him that she was coming to America. As if coming to America were a day’s journey by chaise, and after a pleasant meal or two the visitors would return whence they had come! He had not looked ahead beyond the mere fact of Janie’s arrival. Further, he had not given the children a thought.
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