The Final Hour

by Taylor Caldwell

  ‘Celeste,’ he said, ‘it’s been a long time since I asked you to trust me, hasn’t it? And the last time, you had no reason to trust me. But I’m going to ask you to trust me now. You see, I know so much about you that you think is hidden from everyone. It isn’t hidden from me, darling.’

  She had listened to his first words with an attitude of cooling withdrawal, but at his last words she started, looked up swiftly with raw fear white on her face. But she said, calmly enough: ‘I don’t know what you mean, Christopher.’

  He was silent a moment or two, then he said, heavily: ‘Yes, my darling, you do.’

  He waited. She did not speak. Her face was whiter than ever. When she lifted her hand to push away that white-streaked lock from her forehead, he saw that her hand was shaking.

  ‘I’m not a child,’ Kit,’ she said, unconsciously using the nickname for him which she had not used since childhood. And as she used it, he winced a little, as if in pain. ‘I have my worries; you know that. But so do many other people. Have I been whining?’

  ‘No,’ he replied, abstractedly. He sighed. ‘So, you aren’t going to trust me, are you, dear? I don’t know how I could help you. Now. But I thought it might be some relief—’

  He was surprised when she suddenly burst out with tight but uncontrolled passion: ‘Nothing can ever help me again! No one can ever help me! O God, I wish you’d leave me alone, Kit!’ And she pressed her hands suddenly against her face, palms out, and moved violently on the chaise-longue.

  He waited, not touching her. After several long moments, she dropped her hands, and showed him her face, starkly, and it was haggard and convulsed. ‘Go away, please, Kit,’ she whispered.

  He stood up, as if to go, but instead, walked slowly up and down the room, his head bent, as if thinking. She watched him, drawing her breath in and out very quickly, as if she were weeping. But her suffering eyes were dry and watchful. Her hands were clenched together, the nails whitening under the pressure.

  Then he stopped beside her, and he was suddenly stern. ‘You’ve got to trust me, Celeste. You’ve got to talk to someone. Who have you, except me? Do you remember how you used to come to me for everything—’ He paused, for she had begun to smile with such bitterness and darkness, and the eyes that were fixed on him were bright and hard.

  ‘Still,’ he said, quietly, ‘it would have been best if I had succeeded, fifteen years ago, when I tried to make you marry Henri, wouldn’t it? You see, I do know that you are thinking how I almost succeeded in keeping you from marrying Peter.’

  What he had said was brutal, but Celeste met it with bitter relentlessness. ‘If I had married Henri then, it would have been all up with me. You knew it. If Mama hadn’t interfered, you might have succeeded. You didn’t think of me.’

  His natural cruelty flared up in him, and he lashed at her: ‘It’s rehashing old garbage, all this, isn’t it? But I want to remind you, my dear, that it hasn’t “been all up with you” since you came back. Has it?’ He added, when she only stared at him in terror: ‘You see, I do know a great deal, my pet. I do know that you haven’t thought it was endangering your immortal soul, or something, to cavort around with Henri for some time.’

  She sat up, stiffly, and her face was gaunt with desperate fright. She could not speak. Her hands fell limply on her knees. He could not endure seeing her like this, and sat down quickly beside her. He took one of her cold and rigid hands. But she only looked at him, speechlessly.

  ‘Celeste, you’ve got to trust me, my darling,’ he urged. ‘Can’t you see there’s no one else? Do you actually believe that I’d be treacherous to you, now?’

  He waited. But she still could not speak. He could feel her shivering.

  In the gentlest of voices, he went on: ‘You see, I’ve known about you and Henri for a long time, from the beginning—’

  But she interrupted him in a hard loud voice: ‘What I’d like to know is: Who doesn’t know about it?’

  He frowned, startled. ‘No one, I hope, except you, and me, and Henri.’

  Then, disillusion yourself, Christopher,’ she said, in that unnaturally loud bright voice. ‘It seems practically everyone does.’

  He let her pull her hand away from him. He was enormously disturbed. ‘No, you are wrong, Celeste. I know it. The people most concerned, for instance, Annette and Peter, don’t know. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

  ‘Who told you, then?’ she said.

  He waited a moment or two, then said, very quietly: ‘Henri.’

  She stared at him with blank incredulity. Then, forcing her voice through her stiff lips, she cried: ‘I don’t believe you! He wouldn’t— You are lying!’

  ‘But he did,’ said Christopher, inexorably. ‘From the very beginning. We discussed it.”

  Now her haggard face turn crimson, and her eyes were suffused. ‘You—you discussed it!’ she repeated, in a stifled tone. ‘You my brother—’

  ‘Stop being a romantic, sentimental fool!’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course, I discussed it with him! When I found out. After all, you are my sister, you know. If you were going to trollop around, I wanted to find out why, and I wanted to keep you from getting hurt. I knew what he was; I’ve always known. I’ve always known, too, that women aren’t important to him, even if he always did want you. I know he is vengeful, and seducing you (nasty, Victorian word!) would make him feel quite high and satisfied, after you had kicked him out some years ago. I wasn’t going to stand by and see you hurt, not if I could help it. So—we had the discussion.’

  Horrible shame swept over her. She put her hands to her throat, and averted her head. He put out his hand to touch her, then withdrew it.

  ‘Let’s be sensible, my dear,’ he said, more gently. ‘You know, of course, that he’s always hated all of us. Even you, too, probably. He came back to smash us. I had a little smashing I wanted to do myself, to the family. He wanted you, and I saw if you married him, I’d have an ally of sorts, though he’s a damned treacherous swine. You spoiled my plans, and married Peter. Then, you came back. I soon saw that something was up between you. Perhaps you’d grown up, and saw that you really wanted him. I’m not blaming you. But I knew you would probably be hurt. I didn’t want you to be hurt. That’s why I forced him to discuss it with me.’

  ‘You forced him—’ repeated Celeste, and now he saw that she was smiling contemptuously. And at her smile, his face darkened spitefully.

  ‘You’re not telling me the truth,’ added Celeste. When he did not speak, she turned to him, and her smile was very malevolent. ‘You’re not, are you?’

  And then he saw that he must be truthful with her, if he was to relieve her agony and secure her trust. He pressed his lips together for a moment, then looked at her directly: ‘No, not quite,’ he said. ‘That is, I’m not telling you everything. But what I’m not telling you doesn’t matter. Let us say, for instance, that I found out, and talked to him about it.’

  She was partly disarmed by his words. She turned her face away from him again. ‘What did he tell you?’ she asked, almost inaudibly.

  ‘He said,’ continued Christopher, with renewed gentleness, that he intended to divorce Annette, after Armand died, and marry you. And I had reason to believe that he was telling the truth.’ He added: ‘You see, he wants children. It isn’t only you, my dear.’

  She was silent. But now all the bitterness and hardness had gone from her expression, and it was heavy and mournful. She sighed, pressed her fingers to her eyes, dropped them, and looked steadfastly at the windows that opened out on the wide April air.

  ‘And then,’ he went on, ‘I found out that you haven’t seen him since January. No, he didn’t tell me. He’s a close-mouthed devil. But I found out, perhaps by intuition.’ He paused. ‘Why, Celeste? I know it isn’t his fault. It’s yours. Was it because of Peter?’

  ‘No,’ she said, clearly. ‘It wasn’t because of—Peter. I know you think I’m hysterical, but I don’t begin something to end it emotionally, without
a reason. If it had been—Peter, I’d have never begun it.’

  He said, with increasing gentleness: ‘Then why, darling? You weren’t tired of the affair, were you?’ When she did not answer, he said urgently: ‘I’ve really no way of knowing, but I have an idea you didn’t tell him why, either. You didn’t think enough of him to tell him?’

  She still did not look at him, but her profile became rigid and very pale. She twisted her fingers together. She said, quietly: ‘I didn’t dare. There were too many other things to consider, things more important than us.’

  He was baffled at this, opened his mouth to question her, then did not speak. He fixed his attention on her profile, and his own face tightened, became extremely thoughtful. He was a subtle man, and excessively intuitive and discerning. As his thoughts progressed, he became incredulous, shook his head once or twice as if arguing with himself, then, as he read his sister’s face with increasing clarity, his incredulity vanished.

  He said, reflectively: ‘I don’t think anyone would have tried to injure him. They wouldn’t dare.’

  Yet, even as he said this, doubt and alarm quickened in him. He stood up, and began to walk up and down again, with accelerated steps. Finally, he stopped at the foot of the chaise-longue, and said: ‘Perhaps you are right. I can see that. But, why didn’t you tell him, instead of breaking it off like that?’

  She said, in a dull voice: ‘Who could ever tell him anything? He’s too brutal, too egotistic. Who would ever dare to lift his hand against the powerful Henri Bouchard? Yes, he’d think that. He’s always thought it. He forgets that every man is vulnerable, especially a man who sets out to destroy his enemies.’

  Christopher sat down quickly beside her again. ‘Celeste,’ he said, with low urgency, ‘just how much has he told you?’

  She shrugged, restlessly. ‘A great deal. Does it matter?’ She added: ‘I knew if I told him, it would do no good at all. He wouldn’t listen. He has such enormous conceit. So, I had to do it myself.’ Now a look of extreme pain came into her face, and she sighed, again and again. ‘And now, I suppose, it’s all over, for him. Even if I explained, after a while, when it was safe, he wouldn’t care.’

  But Christopher only sat and scrutinized, her keenly.

  Her caution, her control, were gone now. She went on, in a louder, swifter voice, rubbing her hands together, drawing herself together as if she were most frightfully cold: ‘I knew we couldn’t—see—each other again, while Armand was living. It would be fatal to him. I couldn’t see him until he had divorced Annette. And he couldn’t do that, everything considered, until Armand died. There were so many things— People are so vicious—’

  She was speaking incoherently. Then she could say nothing more, and was silent. Feeling her impotence, she flung out her hands in a gesture that was full of speechless desolation.

  Finally, she whispered: ‘I’ll tell him, some time, when it’s safe. But he won’t care, then. I wrote him. He never tried to see me again. He told me, once, that if I sent him away, he’d never come back. So, he won’t ever come back.’

  Christopher was overwhelmed with pity for her. He put his hand on hers, and said: ‘Yes, he’ll come back. All you have to do is to send for him. I know it.’

  But she shook her head with profound and dreary conviction. ‘No, he won’t,’ she added: ‘Even when I explain, he won’t come back. He will be furious. He will feel I’ve insulted him by suggesting that he had ever been vulnerable. You see, I know all about him.’

  Christopher began to speak, then stopped. His colourless and narrow face suddenly flushed a little. He shook his head slightly, to himself. Then, with resolution, he put his hands on his sister’s shoulders, and turned her forcibly to him. He looked into her desolate dull eyes. He said, softly: ‘You don’t think he’ll come back—when it’s safe, of course—because of the child?’

  Now the dullness of her eyes vanished in the sudden frantic lightning of terror which flashed into them. She tried to pull herself backwards from his hands, but he held her inexorably. Her mouth fell open blankly, and he saw the white shining of her teeth.

  ‘Celeste!’ he said, sharply, frightened for her.

  But now she had a frenzied strength. She pulled herself free of him. She swung her feet to the floor, and stood up, trembling as if she had been struck. She cried out: ‘How did you know? Does everyone know?’

  He stood up. He knew he had to calm her, for she appeared ready for wild flight, and God knew what excesses, in her terror. He grasped her arms and held her again, with hands that were both gentle and firm. But he could hardly bear to look at her poor distraught face.

  ‘No, I’m sure no one knows, except me. Who comes here, anyway? You haven’t seen Annette for a month, and as far as I can see, Henri doesn’t look at you when he does see you. Edith hasn’t been here for some time, either. So, I’m the only one. And I wouldn’t have known, so far as any sign is concerned. It was just—call it my intuition,’ and he smiled slightly, a smile which was intended to reassure her. ‘Sit down, dear. You’ll fall, if you don’t. There, let me help you.’

  But she suddenly turned to him and clung to him with desperation, dropping her head to his shoulder. She began to sob, wildly and without control. He put his arms tightly about her, letting her weep, knowing it was the only relief for her. He pressed her head against his shoulder, murmuring words of tenderness and compassion and understanding such as his wife had never heard from him, nor anyone else. And for the first time in many years, he felt the old sad melting of his heart for his sister, the old sick throbbing and protectiveness.

  It was a long time before she relaxed sufficiently to let him put her again on the chaise-longue. Beyond the windows heaven had darkened immediately overhead, but in the west the sky was all static, hollow blue with one small fixed cloud in it, touched at the rim with pale cold fire. Celeste was shivering so violently that Christopher closed the window, lifted the coverlet from the couch, and placed it gently over her shoulders. She sat, huddled together, her head bent. Then he sat near her once more, and studied her with grave pity.

  ‘Why didn’t you do something about it—before?’ he asked.

  She said, hardly audibly, and without lifting her head: ‘I might have. But, Peter took ill, right after—right after I sent Henri away. He was sick for nearly three months. He almost died, you know. I didn’t have time—to think. I had a vague idea something was wrong—in March. But everything was so confused. There were so many nights when we thought Peter would die. And I was so exhausted. No time to think, at all. And, when I did, I couldn’t leave him, not even for—that. I kept waiting, thinking each day that I could leave him. I knew it would have to be for about three or four days, at least. But he kept getting worse. I couldn’t leave him.’ She drew a gasping breath. ‘Then, last week, when I could leave him for a few hours, I went to a doctor in Philadelphia.’ She paused. Her head dropped lower. She whispered: ‘He said it was too late. He couldn’t do anything for me. No one could.’

  Christopher could not help saying, with alarm: ‘Did the doctor know you?’

  ‘No. I just picked him at random. I didn’t give him my name, of course.’

  ‘How long—?’ asked Christopher.

  ‘Over four months, now,’ she whispered.

  Now that everything had been said, Christopher was appalled. He fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, stared at it blindly.

  Then he offered Celeste a cigarette. She took it, and he lit it for her. The tears ran down her pale cheeks in childish rivulets. But he saw that she was calmer, now.

  ‘You must have some plans, Celeste, haven’t you?’ he asked, after a little. ‘How do you expect to explain this? To Peter,’ he added, hesitatingly.

  She said, in a voice completely without expression: ‘Peter’s doctors say he will die almost at any time.’

  Despite what he was, he was sick at her words. He frowned involuntarily. ‘And,’ he said, inexorably, ‘what, after that? When Peter is dead? How will you�
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  ‘I can’t go away,’ she said, calm with despair. ‘Everyone will be sure to find out, eventually. So, as far as anyone will know, it will be Peter’s child.’

  He could not help exclaiming: ‘Do you expect them to believe that, Celeste?’

  When she shrugged heavily, he saw how completely she was undone. ‘It won’t matter. They won’t dare deny it to my face. If I went away, they would have reason to talk about it, openly. If I stay, and I will, they won’t dare—’

  ‘But, we all know that you and Peter—’

  She lifted her head and smiled darkly and fully at him. ‘“You all know.” But none of you will dare to say it openly.’ She looked at him with the hard straight eyes and the cold smile that are the products of cornered despair. He felt painful compassion for her, intense and wretched.

  ‘You’ve got courage, my pet,’ he said, staring at her with incredulous and sad admiration. ‘Yes, I can see what you mean. No one but the family will doubt. But they won’t talk about it, except in whispers. There’s family pride, you know, and even though we hate hell out of each other, we put up a solid front to everyone else. And after a while, if you keep your mouth shut, and your head up, they’ll pretend with you. A kind of perverted family loyalty. Yes, you can get away with it, if you stick it out and look them in the eye.’

  And he smiled at her affectionately. ‘And Edith and I, of course, will stand with you, for what it’s worth. And you and Peter have so few friends that no one knows anything about your affairs.’

  Then he had an alarming thought: ‘But what if Peter doesn’t—’

  She said, very quietly: ‘In that event, of course, I’ll have to go away, before it’s too obvious to him. I’ve got to spare him that, you know. No sickly confessions, and all that, even though he’d stand by me, I know.’

  There was a long silence between them. Celeste finished her cigarette in the heavy serenity of despair and resolution. But Christopher’s cigarette burned itself away in his fleshless fingers.