Never Victorious, Never Defeated

by Taylor Caldwell

  He put down Cornelia, took each little girl by the hand, and advanced into the room. Sophia was grimly sewing by the fire, and Lydia was reading. Both women glanced up at him, Sophia with a visible softening of her harsh face, and Lydia with her elliptical smile. Both presented a cheek for his kiss; Sophia clung to his arm for a moment, pressing it. “You’re late, son,” she remarked in her rough voice.

  Rufus sat down on the yellow sofa near the fire, and the two little girls sat near him, as close as possible, Cornelia almost sprawling across his knees, Laura content to lie against his shoulder. He patted each head contentedly, and then talked of the storm to the women. Sophia listened to his pleasant comments as though each word was of absorbing importance; Lydia gave him her attention politely. The butler brought wine for the ladies and whisky for Rufus. The great fire blustered on the hearth, and the wind blustered at the windows. Lamplight threw golden pools and shadows on carpet, walls, and ceiling. Rufus felt almost at peace. Now, if only Lydia were truly his wife, and there were more children whose faces reflected the firelight and candlelight, safe here within these strong and beautiful walls from the night outside! Rufus was not one to be satisfied with half a loaf; he had too much vitality for compromise. Slowly, though he smiled at Cornelia and Laura, and talked with his mother and wife, his eyes became brooding. Once or twice they touched Lydia, and he thought: I should have let her divorce me.

  As if she felt his thought, Lydia looked up, and her face was clouded with compassion and sadness. She turned to the fire and said to herself: Poor Rufus. He has so much life and power, and he has expressed it here only in one little daughter. I ought to have gone away; he would have forgotten me and there would be another woman in this house now, a woman as strong and as full of gusto as himself, who would have given him a home full of children, a woman all gaiety and as completely conscienceless as he is.

  Why did I stay? I could have returned to my parents’ house, and have spent my life under those dreaming trees and in that timeless enchantment. Perhaps I stayed because I could not have taken Cornelia with me. Perhaps it was because of Laura, who would have been as lost here as her father. Or, perhaps—and this made her start a little with profound wonder—I stayed to help Rufus himself.

  “What can Stephen be doing so long in Scranton?” Sophia was asking with contempt. “He is always buying up worthless land there, and talking of coal. In the meantime, the land isn’t being developed, and he pays taxes on it. He never did understand such things.”

  Rufus laughed shortly. “Don’t underestimate old Steve. One of these days those acres of coal will be profitable. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “If it weren’t for you, son, ‘time’ would eat up all our profits and the railroad would be in bankruptcy!” exclaimed Sophia with a toss of her head.

  Rufus was bored; his mother’s comments never varied. He had grown tired of tedious complaints against his brother, and had tired of fending them off with artificial laughter. He sipped his whisky, played with the strong red curls of his clamorous little daughter, smiled down at the quiet Laura. He frequently found adults tiresome; children always charmed him. He wished his mother would be quiet.

  Lydia was unobtrusively studying her husband. He might yawn, might be genuinely bored with his mother, but there was something hidden and alert about him. Underneath his yawns, his tenderness with the children, his relaxation, something was moving restlessly. A faint but familiar sensation of alarm came to her.

  Rufus was throwing back his leonine head in laughter at some remark of Cornelia’s. As the child had not intended to be amusing at that moment, her pretty face changed into an expression of ferocity, and she began to beat on her father’s chest with her pink fists. This further amused Rufus, and he swung her up high into the air where she kicked and punched impotently, and then dissolved into a shout of mirth. He let her down and hugged her, and smiled over the seething curls at his mother. “The little rascal,” he said with fondness. “She makes up the most lovable lies, and when I catch her in them she is furious. But only for a moment or so.”

  There was sharpness in Lydia’s voice. “Cornelia, stop laughing so madly. You’ll be ill.”

  The child was instantly quiet, but she grinned affectionately at her mother, and Lydia could not help smiling in return. Cornelia then bounded off her father’s knees and ran to Lydia, where she swarmed up on her lap. Lydia kissed her admonishingly. They were a charming sight, the dark thin woman in her maroon-velvet dress, and the sturdy little girl, all burnish and crimson silk, their faces pressed together, one slim and pale, the other blazing with life. Rufus, without jealousy watched them in content. But Sophia cried, “Cornelia! Come to Grandma.”

  Cornelia, even at five and a half, was too much of a diplomat to disobey. She might have a secret aversion for her grandmother, and resent the touch of her hard hands, but she immediately slid from her mother’s knees and ran at once to Sophia, who gathered her up hungrily in her bony arms. Cornelia never forgot the scent of her grandmother, a scent compounded of camphor and peppermint and old flesh.

  There was the sound of the hall door opening to the turn of a key, and then a gush of cold air raced into the living room. Rufus straightened alertly. “It must be Steve,” he said, and now he forgot both the children and stood up. Cornelia bounced from the arms of Sophia and cried shrilly, “Uncle Stevie!” and darted into the hall like a small image of flame. Laura, with a slight smile, climbed down from the sofa and followed Cornelia sedately and in silence.

  A cold film flowed over Lydia’s face, and she picked up her book again. Sophia and Rufus exchanged glances that were automatically significant, as they always did when Stephen was about to join them.

  Stephen, drawn and gray, smiled at the little girls approaching him, one with a loud, bold demand for an immediate kiss, and one with a small hand held out. He came into the drawing room, haggard and worn and stooped. His mother regarded him militantly, muttered a greeting; Lydia murmured courteously. But Rufus approached with a broad smile and held out his large warm hand, which Stephen shook lifelessly. The children hovered at Stephen’s knees, looking up at him with eager attention.

  “Welcome home,” said Rufus amiably. “And how was Scranton? Did you buy that property for me?”

  Stephen’s tired features became more tired. But he fixed his eyes somberly on his brother. “I sent your check to my agent in Scranton, Rufus. You now have the option.”

  Rufus raised his tawny eyebrows and waited.

  Stephen sighed. “You see, I didn’t go to Scranton after all. I went to Chicago. There was no sense in telling you before, because what I suspected might have been a delusion. It wasn’t It is a fact. After dinner, Rufus, we must go to the library for a long talk.”

  Rufus did not know whether to be profoundly relieved or disappointed now that his brother had told him of his true destination. So, he merely smiled. Stephen smiled also, a rueful ghost of a smile. “I didn’t leave my brief case on the train, Rufus,” he said; and now, to Rufus’s mortified confusion, Stephen’s eyes actually danced a little as if with sad mirth and understanding.

  The lamps burned yellow in the library until long after midnight. Stephen had stopped talking; he was running his hands wearily over his drained face. “So, that is how it is,” he said lifelessly. Rufus, who had listened without a word, stared at the fire. He was conscious of profound satisfaction and excitement. Then he thought: I’ve underestimated him, all these years. He is going to be very hard to overthrow.

  16

  Rufus, who had learned much from Stephen, sometimes found his self-restraint frustrating. The bold stroke, the flair, the quicksilver drama, of which he was so fond, and which were part of his nature, must sometimes be subordinated to figures and quiet statements which were not only safe but profitable. Adventure had its place; but facts were insurmountable if tedious. Yet Rufus had to admit that when Stephen did move there was more weight and power behind his quietness, and even more drama, than in hi
strionic fanfares propelled by wind.

  So Rufus, always ready with the flamboyant word, the eloquent gesture, remained almost silent during much of the conversation between Stephen and Guy Gunther.

  The financier had arrived on a November day of bright snow and brilliant gales, and he said, when received at home by the two brothers, “I congratulate you for your decision to live here rather than in Philadelphia or New York. I never saw such glorious weather.” He smiled approvingly at Stephen, gave a more cordial smile to Rufus. He went to one of the windows of the drawing room and silently admired the blue mountains, the shining skies and the white earth, and the turquoise river under its shell of ice. Privately, he told himself that this static quiet and immobility would drive him mad.

  “Shall we have luncheon, sir?” asked Stephen in his low and unemphatic voice.

  Mr. Gunther turned from the window, but he looked at Rufus, and what he saw pleased him. A few years ago Rufus would have joined him at the window and would have described the scene fully for him, in extravagant words. The new Rufus merely waited at his brother’s side, smiling agreeably; yet he was watchful. Ever watchful, thought Mr. Gunther with admiration. He’s learned very fast, and that shows a mobility of mind. He is becoming a very dangerous young man, and I need, and can use, dangerous men who are not all pyrotechnics and rainbow bubbles. Mr. Gunther went to the two brothers, linked his arms in theirs, smiled up at them, and said graciously, “Luncheon, of course.”

  He was a short and rotund man, with a full and benevolent face. Though he was only forty-eight, his head was almost completely bald. The remaining fringe of his hair was light brown. His really fine eyes were an innocent blue, without craftiness or guile, and below them were set a wide, pudgy nose and a full smiling mouth. His whole appearance, in spite of the fine black broadcloth of his clothing, the black silk cravat anchored with a conservative gold lover’s-knot pin, and his plain white linen, suggested the unworldly cherub. He had a modestly charming manner, carefully cultivated, of spontaneous openheartedness and candor, and he conducted his sometimes deadly affairs with humor and a mendacious air of frank reasonableness.

  At the luncheon table, seated between Rufus and Stephen (the ladies were not present), Mr. Gunther chatted pleasantly about his wife and family, told anecdotes that were so subtly ribald that even the haggard Stephen smiled, and related tales of Aaron that made Rufus shout with laughter. It was all part of Mr. Gunther’s stage setting of prediscussion agreeableness, and it was so skillfully done that few ever suspected its deliberateness. Stephen was one of the few, and Mr. Gunther knew it, and admired him for it.

  After the very excellent luncheon, which Mr. Gunther enjoyed fully, the three gentlemen went into the library. Stephen had brightened the gloomy room with rose-velvet draperies and fires and a few pieces of attractive furniture, and as he used it often, it was no longer musty and dreary. The high wide windows were like pictures set into the book-lined walls, all vivid with wintry landscapes. Brandy had been set out, and the butler, Seth, was waiting to serve the gentlemen. A lusty fire roared on the hearth. Mr. Gunther, honestly appreciative at having been served exquisitely in this “Godforsaken outland,” settled himself near the hearth and sipped at the excellent brandy and beamed on his hosts. Very good, he thought; we’re mellow. He liked mellowness, for business conducted in such an atmosphere rarely became raucous or angry.

  He noticed that Stephen had only a little brandy, and he remembered that Stephen had drunk no whisky before the luncheon and had barely touched the wine at the table. Rufus was slightly watery of eye, but Gunther was pleased to see that the younger brother had not become confidential or indiscreet, as he had once done under the influence of alcohol. Definitely, I shall be able to use him to our mutual advantage in the future, thought Gunther.

  “How was Fort Wayne, Steve?” asked Mr. Gunther. He puffed at a fine cigar which Rufus had given him. His small black boots glittered in the mingled sunshine and firelight.

  Rufus watched his brother. Without coloring or flinching, Stephen said softly and calmly, “I’m sorry, Mr. Gunther. I changed my mind.” He looked at the brandy in his glass. “I went, instead, to Chicago.”

  That was the way to do it, thought Rufus. No dramatic announcement. It is really effective, then. Mr. Gunther was carefully putting down his brandy glass; his every motion was slow and thoughtful. And now he was regarding Stephen with mild surprise. The intensely blue eyes had become slightly narrowed and the smile that remained in them was the reflection of sunlight on mountain ice.

  “Chicago? Well. And how was the weather there?”

  “Very bad.” Stephen gave a rather banal description. He spoke listlessly and without apparent interest. But Mr. Gunther’s round and pudgy body had tensed. Stephen continued: “While there, I visited my friends at the Chicago Railroad System.”

  “A very ambitious concern,” remarked Mr. Gunther. He chuckled. “Did they mention to you, by any chance, their still nebulous plans to build an independent line from the Pitts burgh terminal to Philadelphia, which will carry all traffic direct from Chicago to Philadelphia and probably New York?”

  “Yes,” said Stephen quietly, “they did.”

  Mr. Gunther smiled tolerantly. “And did they reveal to you how that would be almost ruinous to your own road?”

  Stephen sighed. “I didn’t need their revelation; I knew.”

  Silence engulfed the library. During it, Mr. Gunther turned to Rufus, who was very serious, and whose hazel eyes refused to meet the eyes of the other.

  Mr. Gunther was always delicate in his approach. He finally echoed Stephen’s sigh. This amused Rufus, but he kept his face straight. “I shoud hate to see my old friend’s company—injured,” murmured Mr. Gunther in a distressful tone. “Is there anything I can do, Stephen?”

  Stephen did not speak for a moment or two. Now there was a flush on his sunken cheeks. He gazed at Mr. Gunther coldly and steadily. “No, sir,” he said, and all his words were evenly spaced, “there is nothing you can do. Now.”

  Excellent, thought Rufus. Mr. Gunther had lost a little of his infantile coloring; the pleasant expression was a little too fixed.

  “Well,” said Mr. Gunther, spreading out his fat pink hands, “I’m glad you don’t need my help, Steve.” He waited tentatively, but Stephen did not reply.

  Old Steve’s left the way open to him to reveal himself, thought Rufus. If he does not, this will end with Guy in the extreme dark, and his visit will resolve into nothing. The next move is up to him; he can take it or leave it; and he knows.

  Mr. Gunther was making up his mind rapidly. He disliked “coming to the point,” himself. He preferred, by indirection, by suggestion, to force others into that position. But Stephen, apparently, was not going to be forced.

  So Mr. Gunther said, with an open and blunt kindness, “You were always friendly with the fellers of the Chicago Railroad System, Steve. Can you tell me—confidentially, of course—if they are going to carry out their plans?”

  “They are, Mr. Gunther,” replied Stephen with some stiffness.

  Rufus began to enjoy himself; he was not going to be completely deprived of drama after all. The financier leaned forward on the mound of his belly, and the cherubic features hardened and all his voracity stood avidly in his eyes.

  “And—Steve—you can’t stop them?”

  “No. I cannot.” Stephen was beginning to show uneasiness, and Mr. Gunther contemplated him in shrewd silence. Have I underestimated him? he thought. Is he as intelligent and farsighted as I believed? Mr. Gunther slowly turned his head toward Rufus, who had assumed a sober expression. Cautiously, Mr. Gunther extended that sixth sense of his into the atmosphere; something was happening, and he did not like it though he did not know what it was.

  He sat back in his chair and looked reflective. He smoked calmly. Stephen was studying his boots as if completely uninterested. Then Mr. Gunther began to chuckle richly: “We can stop them, or at least delay them, if you wish, Steve,�
� he said in a voice that almost purred. “And make ourselves considerable money in the process.”

  “How?” asked Stephen. His flush had returned. He was not a man for this cat-and-mouse game, even with Gunther. The sick softening with which he was so familiar began to gnaw at the edges of his ancient dislike of the financier. He could never learn to enjoy outwitting other men, liked or disliked; it gave him no exultation to demolish even an enemy. Always there was that damnable compassion of his, pouring like warm sirup over his sternest resolutions, blurring the stonelike edges of them in nauseous stickiness.

  Before Mr. Gunther could answer his short question, Stephen put down his brandy glass so hastily that the liquid tilted and ran over his hand. He wiped his hand, and his voice was unusually quick and tremulous:

  “Mr. Gunther, you, like so many others, play games. You do business, but you like the sharp pounce, the pleasure of the hunt, the stunning manipulation. I’m not like that. So, in my own fashion, which no doubt you consider drab, I’ll tell you all you are angling to know.”

  Mr. Gunther was not taken aback, for he knew Stephen very well. But he was amused at what he saw in those hunted eyes now turned so desperately upon him. It was compassion for him, Guy Gunther, because he, Stephen deWitt, was about to “hurt” him. “What do I want to know, Steve? I confess I don’t understand you.”

  “You do understand, Mr. Gunther, and that is why you are here,” said Stephen. He was angered at what he had seen in Mr. Gunther’s face, and wounded. It was the old, old story; he extended compassion, or mercy, and it was received with ridicule and disdain. I never learn, he thought

  “You went to Chicago some time ago, Mr. Gunther,” Stephen continued, speaking monotonously so that no emotion would betray him in his voice. “You went for one purpose: to discover all you could about the Chicago Railway System, and talk with your friends about that System, and to lay a plot against an honorable group of men. And then you saw that you needed us, the Interstate Railroad Company. You realized that we had an interest in the System, because you knew that we had some plans to lay a parallel line from Pittsburgh to Chicago, which would compete with the Chicago System. You knew that we were in a much better position, financially, than our Chicago friends.”