Never Victorious, Never Defeated

by Taylor Caldwell

  The challenge was thrown down between them, and they looked at it. Rufus meditatively, Allan without perturbation. After the silence had prolonged itself, Allan said softly, “With my knowledge, my training, and my money, I think I could do very well in politics. Labor, all over Pennsylvania, is looking to me. Only today I received a letter from old Dan Boyle. I am thinking of running for senator, myself.”

  Rufus heard the deep and implacable threat in the young man’s expressive voice. Rufus hid his suddenly violent consternation. This young devil would not be seduced by benevolence, flattery, or a show of affection. He wanted what he wanted. There was a smell of danger in the warm and placid air of the office. Rufus tapped his fingers slowly on the desk, and his reddish brows drew together in a hard knot of concentration. He pondered his reply, then came to the shrewd conclusion that Allan saw through all pretense and was waiting for a blunt statement.

  “Well, Allan. What do you want? What is your price?”

  Allan lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “If I should let my political ambitions go, I should want to be head of a legal staff, not part of it. I assure you, sir, that I am quite capable.”

  “In other words, dear boy, you want to be head of my legal staff in Portersville, which already contains some of the best minds in the Commonwealth—old, experienced minds, well seasoned. You would also want to be called into consultation in our offices in Philadelphia.”

  “I think, sir, that you have summed it up very clearly.”

  “You are a very formidable young man,” said Rufus benignly. “And I think you would be most invaluable to us. Shall we say ten thousand dollars a year? Beginning March 1st?”

  ‘Ten thousand dollars a year,” repeated Allan thoughtfully. “That is more, I believe, than the present head of your legal department is now getting. It must be understood, sir, that that salary is just the beginning.”

  Rufus drew in a deep breath of relief and complacency. It was ridiculous that, confronted by this man not yet thirty, he, Rufus deWitt, powerful and invincible, should experience such emotion. But Rufus never underestimated others.

  “Mr. Patrick Peale is not going to like this,” said Allan, after he had satisfied himself that he had won a complete victory. He laughed shortly.

  Rufus joined him in the laughter. He extended his fat hand to Allan who shook it. “Nor will your other friends,” said Rufus cunningly.

  “I have no friends,” said Allan.

  Rufus lit another cigar and took some time about it. “My brother, Mr. Stephen, remarked that before he died. But he said it bitterly. You aren’t bitter, Allan, are you?”

  “No, sir. I am a realist.” Allan began to put on his gloves without hurry. “In fact, I’ve discovered no man has any friends.”

  Rufus chuckled depreciatingly. “Now, now, Allan. You do sound bitter. I think you and I will be very good friends indeed.”

  “Yes, indeed, sir,” said Allan gravely.

  “And you had all this planned, from the very beginning?”

  “From the very beginning.”

  Rufus nodded with deep content. He began to accept Allan warmly, as he always accepted potent and single-minded men. “What do you think, now, dear boy, since you have gotten what you wanted?”

  “I think nothing in particular, except that it was inevitable.”

  Rufus was intensely amused. “But what if I had refused?”

  Allan grinned briefly. “You were not in a position to refuse, Mr. deWitt. Moreover, you saw the immense advantage to yourself. I never offer anyone something which will not benefit him, in exchange for what I want. I think, sir, we have both made an excellent bargain.”

  He stood up. He had undergone a frightful strain this past hour; he had gambled; he had won. But now his knees started to tremble and there was a dampness between his shoulder blades.

  There was a brisk knock at the door, which immediately, and without ceremony, flew open. Cornelia entered like a blaze of sun and wind, and shouted huskily, “Papa, when in the world are you coming downstairs? I’ve been waiting in the carriage—” She stopped when Allan turned to her, and her mouth fell open. But her surprise was very brief. She began to smile, widely and with knowing delight. She advanced rapidly to the young man and thrust out her hand. “Well, if it isn’t—our gardener!” she cried, her yellowish eyes filled with mocking points of radiance. “Papa told me all about you. Is it too late for congratulations?”

  Allan took her hand. For a moment or two he was quite unable to speak. He could only look at Cornelia and tell himself how beautiful and vital she was, and how tall and abounding. A swift lust for her almost overpowered him, a deep and ravening hunger that was an overwhelming appetite. She stood and laughed in his face gleefully. Her father stood up and came to stand beside her. “Not too late, my pet,” he said richly. “I have just made this dear boy here the head of our Portersville legal staff. You may congratulate him.”

  “Well, well!” boomed Cornelia, not withdrawing her hand. Her fingers curled about Allan’s. She looked over her shoulder at her father and laughed again. “I deserve the credit for discovering Mr. Marshall. I met him in the gardens last summer, and then I sent him a very fine set of lawbooks.”

  “Indeed!” said Rufus. His cordial smile became a trifle fixed. His hand was on his daughter’s arm, and he mechanically stroked the snow-white ermine sleeve of her short jacket. His gesture was possessive and jealous, and his gaze roved over her slowly and anxiously. A round white ermine hat perched on the top of her red curls, and she held a small muff of the same fur. Under her hat, her face was all malicious and buoyant light, her cheeks bright scarlet from powerful health, and cold, her big mouth grinning and her splendid teeth glittering. Pearls shimmered in her ears, and there were diamonds and pearls on her fingers. The turquoise-blue velvet frock she wore enhanced her natural vividness of color. She sparkled with electric magnetism, so that even while she stood there, laughing, she appeared to be all movement.

  “Oh, yes,” said Cornelia, in her bold and common voice, as she continued to twinkle on Allan. “I recognized the genius immediately. Did you ever know, Mr. Marshall, that it was I who sent the books?”

  “I knew at once,” he said. His throat felt very thick. He released her hand and she stood back on her heels, as her father always stood, and surveyed him with pleasure and jeering friendliness. The color in her cheeks became more em phatic, and for an instant she glanced away in unaccustomed confusion. Then she laughed again. “Who else but I?” she demanded gaily. “Who else could understand all about you?”

  “Very perceptive of you, my love,” said Rufus. “But then, we are both perceptive, aren’t we?” He withdrew his watch, glanced at it, affected to be astonished at the time. “We must really go. We have guests for dinner, and it is getting dark. By the way, Cornelia, Allan is attending your party.”

  “Wonderful,” said Cornelia. “There are so few handsome men in the world.” Deliberately, and openly, she examined Allan’s clothing, her head cocked; she wanted to annoy and embarrass him. He stood before her stiffly and in composed silence, and she flashed him a derisive smile as she took her father’s arm affectionately. She knew Rufus had become vaguely uneasy; so she said, “Mr. Marshall and I have so much in common. We must find time for a little talk at the party.” She dropped her father’s arm, flung herself, almost sprawling, into a chair, and tossed her muff on the desk. “Just as you, Papa, and I, must have a talk right now, before we go home.”

  Her sideways glance was impudent and dismissing. So Allan bowed coldly, shook hands with Rufus, and left. Cornelia watched him go, and chuckled. Rufus came back to his chair, frowning. “My love, that was indiscreet, sending him those books. He might have misunderstood.”

  Cornelia hooted. “He never misunderstands—anything. Quite the gentleman, now, isn’t he? Or, almost a gentleman—just as you, dear Papa, are almost a gentleman. Now, don’t glower. I’m not a lady, either. Not at all like our dear Estelle.” Her voice lowered with cont
empt.

  “I wish, Cornelia, that you wouldn’t sneer so at your stepmother, or so obviously dislike her,” said Rufus. His warm pink flesh crawled with discomfort.

  “Dislike her?” exclaimed Cornelia, her eyes widening. “I don’t at all. Besides, dislike is wasted on Estelle. She believes she has people deceived with her sweet face, and her innocent curls piled on the top of her darling little head, and her sweet smiles and her damnable sweet voice, and her idiot dimples and exquisite little ways. What a fraud she is! Not good, healthy, robust frauds like you and me, Papa. Just a sugary hypocrite, Estelle, positive that she’s diddling everybody with her sympathetic, gentle voice, and her aching heart for the ‘poor and downtrodden,’ as she calls them, when all the time she is simply the most avaricious and greedy little bitch—”

  “Cornelia!” ejaculated Rufus angrily.

  His daughter waved her hand airily. “Oh, Papa. I’m not refined, I admit. Now, as we were discussing Estelle: no one objects to anyone liking money—except fools—but your dainty little wife pretends it is of no importance. Yet she goes over the household bills with an eye like a buzzard’s, and she has as much mercy in her as a stone. But we’ve talked about dear Estelle’s character too much in the past. I only bring it up today for a very particular reason.”

  “Well?” said Rufus, still uncomfortable. His daughter stared at him with real love and a kind of coarse tenderness. He could not resist this, so he laughed halfheartedly. “What a rascal you are, Cornelia. I can’t remain angry with you. What is it now?”

  “Nicki had a talk with Estelle this morning. She came up to me and reported it, all chittering and sweet little grins and flutterings. Full of delight. It seems Nicki wants one million, five hundred thousand dollars to marry me, cash on the line, and a nice fruity block of Interstate stock.”

  The fire crackled. Cornelia and Rufus regarded each other in a grim silence. Then Rufus moved ponderously in his chair and faced the fire. He said, “That isn’t so—excessive. In exchange for the title and a moldy castle or two, and a big château on the Riviera and a large house in Paris, and assorted vineyards and such. If that is what you want, Cornelia.”

  “I don’t,” she said roughly. “I never wanted it. I like Nicki; he’s so finished, and has such manners. But I never seriously considered him as a husband. Imagine being married to that mixture of pomade and sophistication and—well, what we call depravity. Have you noticed Europeans much? Elegant corruption. We aren’t corrupt, in that special meaning. We love life; they merely perfume it, and pervert it.”

  “Dear me,” said Rufus with genuine alarm, “where in the name of God do you get your ideas, Cornelia?”

  “I just look,” replied Cornelia equably, and in a reasonable tone of voice. “We’re a nation of entrepreneurs and throatcutters and pirates, and what Pat Peale calls ‘robber barons.’ We have no culture either, thank the Lord, if by culture is meant the Continental variety. But at. least we aren’t diseased.”

  “Diseased?” repeated Rufus with consternation. He colored violently. Cornelia studied him with high amusement. She then dropped her eyes demurely. “Disease of the mind, I mean, Papa. What else did you think?”

  Rufus got to his feet and stood before the fire, his hands in his pockets. “For a girl brought up as nicely as you were, Cornelia, with a finishing school, and everything, and all the refined advantages, your conversation is extraordinary.”

  “So you’ve remarked before, Papa.” She stood up and went to him, and put her arm coaxingly in his. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his heated cheek. “Papa, I’m being honest. Damn it, I can only be honest with you, so don’t expect me to pretend anything else.”

  He patted her hand abstractedly and continued to look at the fire. “What did you say to Estelle? And stop swearing; it’s unheard of in a young lady.”

  “I told her to tell Nicki to go to hell,” said Cornelia roundly. “And, of course, she had hysterics, and I had to call her maid and there was smelling salts. Poor Papa,” Cornelia continued, with real concern. “How our little angel-face bullies you! Mama never bullied you like that.”

  Rufus’s face darkened with pain and anger. Almost roughly, he pushed Cornelia’s hand off his arm. “Let us not discuss your mother or Estelle. Let us get down to facts. You made your stepmother ill. That was to be expected. And I’ll hear about it half the night. Is she in bed?”

  “Certainly. She was when I left. But she’ll be all scent and ruffles and fringes by the time we get home. We have house guests, remember, and ‘one must never reveal one’s emotions. It is vulgar.’”

  Rufus sighed. “You make life very difficult. Well. You don’t want to marry Nicki. I never wanted you to. You know that, Cornelia.” He chewed on his lower lip. “The guests at your party are expecting an announcement. It is going to be very awkward.”

  “Not at all, Papa. Estelle gave Nicki the bad news this afternoon, and he is leaving tomorrow morning. Awkward? Who cares? Our guests anticipated staring at the Marquis, and they’ll find nothing to stare at.” She continued offhandedly: “On the way down here I stopped in at the newspaper offices, and asked them to insert a society note that the Marquis de Fontainebleau has been called home to France on urgent matters—by cable.”

  “My God!” shouted Rufus. He turned to Cornelia, then he paused. Helplessly, he began to laugh, and she burst out laughing with him. She threw herself into his arms and he hugged her furiously.

  29

  The snow blew up in clouds like brilliant fireflies in the lamps of Allan’s carriage. Swift scarfs of white gossamer swirled over the cobblestones, and a rising gale made the carriage vibrate and sway. The horses, feeling the savage wind in their manes and tails, bent their heads and moved rapidly. The sonorous shout of the river, stirred to violent action, filled the bitter air like an imminent presence. The dark of the early evening threw a vagueness like fog over the city, in which the yellow street lamps struggled dimly.

  The gates were down at the railroad crossing. The carriage, and its restless and uneasy horses, drew up, waiting. Allan had no need to glance at his watch to know what train was approaching down the glimmering rails, its polished bells clanging furiously against the storm, smoke and sparks pouring out of its gigantic smokestack, lines of fire spurting from its wheels. It was “old Sixty-eight,” and Allan sat in his carriage, his face pressed against the window. He had believed that the railroad had been a necessary evil in the life of his family, but now he knew he had resented it only because it had not been more significant. He was aware, as the train bellowed closer, of a strong excitement and exhilaration, a sense of belonging to the power which sent these monsters to cities and over plains and mountains, and which battered their fiery heads against closed dark wildernesses and primeval fortresses. What they opened became the property of man; what became the property of man sounded with life and commerce. The burning smokestacks of the engines were torches lifted to civilization in the gloom of wastelands. Behind them marched the men of industry, the builders of cities, the whores, the teachers, the judges, the murderers, the poets and the writers, the architects—and the soldiers.

  Who was driving old Sixty-eight tonight? Thursday was “changeover” day. It could be any engineer at all. And then Allan, squinting from his carriage, saw that the engineer was his father, Tim Marshall. The wavering street lamps at the crossing flickered on Tim’s face, which had recently aged, become drawn and despondent under the striped cap. The engine was slowing rapidly, and now, as Allan looked at his father from the shelter of his carriage, he heard a difference in the clangorous bells. They were no longer exuberant, as when Tim usually rang them. They had a mechanical and almost dolorous note, listless and without life, and the eyes that followed the passage so carefully no longer had in them the old pride and exultation.

  Allan sat in his carriage, frowning. Sightlessly, he waited while the long line of freight rumbled by. He put the head of his gold-topped cane against his mouth. The old fool!

 
Allan was still a very young man, and in spite of his ire and impatience he could feel sadness for his father. He had been fond of his parents in a way he had considered compounded of indulgence, superiority, and superficiality. His sadness increased his impatience, and he was in a bad humor by the time the last winking red lights of the train had receded into the distance. The carriage rolled on, clattered over the stones, rounded corners, and climbed hilly streets. It finally reached the Philadelphia House, which was discreetly lighted, a genteel bulk in the darkness. Allan entered the quiet lobby, where a few predinner groups of elderly men and women, with a scattering of well-bred and very drab young ladies, were chatting in soft and elegant voices. Allan’s entrance caused them to become silent, while they studied him covertly. The dark silks and velvets of the women, their decorous and colorless faces, the black broadcloth of the men, the whole air of studied quiet and gentility, suddenly made Allan think of a funeral. This thought restored his good temper as he advanced toward the single creaking elevator of the House.

  “Ah, Mr. Marshall,” whispered the ancient clerk at the desk, sibilantly. Allan halted. The clerk leaned across the desk with a conspirator’s air, at once dubious and confidential. “There is a—a gentleman—waiting over there near those palms. He asked for you. He has been here an hour, I believe, and did not give his name.”

  Allan turned. A short, somewhat plump young man in shabby brown was reading a newspaper calmly under a prudent cluster of gaslights affixed to the paneled wall. Allan’s face tightened; he hesitated, then walked with ungenteel rapidity toward his visitor, conscious of the following eyes and curiosity. “Well, hello, Mike,” said Allan, holding his cane squarely across him with both gloved hands.

  Michael was smiling up at him, his fine, round brown eyes shining pleasantly. “Hello,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “So I heard. Shall we go up to my rooms?”

  Michael rose, the paper crackling noisily in the warm quiet. He had been smoking his pipe, probably unaware that the rules of the hotel prohibited gentlemen from smoking in the common meeting ground of the lobby. His wrinkled clothing was covered with ashes and flecks of tobacco, and the pipe, in that pure atmosphere, stank abominably. Allan began to smile, though pricked with some embarrassment.