“Well,” he concluded, shortly, “Adelaide is with Wilkins, with an elderly female friend, who is nursing her. She is very ill. I stayed with her all through the night, until she seemed easier. In a few minutes, I will go back to her.”
Again, there was a great silence in the room. Andrew, still staring at his son, appeared to be thinking rapidly. Then he cleared his throat, gently.
“And, if I may inquire, what is the attitude of Wilkins towards your—towards Miss Turnbull?”
Anthony knew the trend of his father’s thoughts, and said in a loud hard voice: “I am given to understand that she is his god-daughter, his pet, that he would do practically anything for her. He was much aroused at the whole thing. He—he told me last night: ‘We’ve a lot of work to do together.’” He stopped, abruptly, turning a bright scarlet with his anger against himself for these revelations. It infuriated him that he was so weak, so soft, that he wished to appease his father and his uncle, that he wished them to look upon Adelaide with approval and pleasure, even for a nefarious and exigent reason.
Andrew turned in his chair towards Mr. Gorth, and Mr. Gorth turned in his, to meet his nephew’s look. They regarded each other in a long silence, faintly smiling, and secret.
“‘We’ve a lot of work to do together,’” repeated Andrew, in a rich tone.
“Mr. Wilkins,” replied Mr. Gorth, to Andrew, “is a very remarkable man, indeed. Very remarkable.”
It was hard for Anthony to restrain an impulse to shout out in fury: “Damn it, I’ll have nothing to do with Wilkins!”
But he halted himself. He knew this was not true. He would have a lot to do with Wilkins. There was no tolerance in him for cruelty, for ugly deceit, for the wickedness of men like Hastings and Brogan. Besides, there was Adelaide to avenge, and Anthony was hungry for limitless revenge. In the hour before he had left Mr. Wilkins, there had been a long talk between the two men, in which Mr. Wilkins had outlined a very subtle and merciless plot.
“Let ’em enjoy their gains for a bit, me lad,” he had said. “They’ve got it coming to ’em, they have. Then, we’ll move in. It’s all clear in me mind. But wait a bit. A month, two months, three, and then we’ll ’ave ’em in the palms of our hands.” And he had made a vicious squeezing gesture with his fat rosy fingers, infinitely slow and terrible. Perhaps Anthony was the first man to discern that Mr. Wilkins had a strangler’s hands.
He was still fuming, still red, when Andrew turned to him. His father’s manner was singularly friendly, amused and tolerant.
“Mr. Wilkins isn’t a man to speak idly, or on impulse,” he observed, watching his son, closely. He was silent a moment. “What he sets out to do, he does, as you have perhaps discerned before, in our own affairs. But he’s a lethal devil. I’d advise you to watch him like the thief he is. Could you tell me,” he added, “whether this affection he has for your wife is something new, born of his endless schemes, or something on which the young lady can rely?”
Anthony was silent. He would have liked to answer that Mr. Wilkins’ affection was tepid, or only a by-product of the Wilkins’ scheming. Then, with a last disgusted surrender he said: “I’ve told you she is his god-daughter. He told me frankly that he loves her ‘like a father.’ That he’s intended all her life to avenge her on her father, some day. That she is his sole heir.”
Andrew glanced again, swiftly, at his uncle. Gorth was chuckling hoarsely, deep in his throat. He was rubbing his rough harsh palms together.
“The mills of the gods,” he observed.
Eugenia, as if smothering, placed her trembling hand to her throat. Mrs. Gorth was studying her with avid viciousness and delight. The poor woman would not have spoken if she could. There was about her a complete collapse and sinking.
Then Andrew spoke to his son, with an air of tolerance, amusement and resignation: “Well, Tony, it seems that you’ve gotten yourself into quite a situation. Not one I’d have chosen for you. For a young man whom I’ve always thought clear-headed, cool and expedient, and hard as iron, you’ve involved yourself in circumstances that are turbulent, to say the least. And very exciting. Perhaps even interesting.”
He continued after a moment’s silence: “You know what I’d planned for you. No matter. This is your own life, to do with as you please. I’ve always granted you that. My own wishes have been disappointed. Nothing can undo this indiscreet marriage. Now, I wish to say that I have no doubt that Miss Turnbull is a very estimable young lady. I hope—I know—that you’d have married no other sort of young female. I ask you, now, not to consider too much my own feelings in the matter, my own disappointments. I ask you to believe that I wish you happiness.”
With a look of supreme forgiveness, of repressed mirth, of evil satisfaction, he extended his bloodless hand to his son, who stared at him grimly for a few moments before taking it. He was surprised at the warm grip of his father’s hand. He tried not to see the pale sparkling of Andrew’s eye.
Mr. Gorth rose ponderously, and approached Anthony, who stood up courteously. Mr. Gorth held out his hand, and Anthony took it. Mr. Gorth was smiling widely.
“A fine kettle of fish! But, congratulations, young man. Wilkins, and the young lady, didn’t exaggerate about her condition in her father’s house. It was fairly well known. I understand, too, that she is a female of discretion and intelligence, and quite comely. You have my permission to bring her home to us.”
He pressed Anthony’s hand with significance. He regarded the young man with real affection.
“Could you tell me one thing? What is Wilkins’ attitude towards you? You know, he’s not been exactly a friend to us. Did he appear—ah—to resent Miss Turnbull’s entanglement with you?”
Anthony clenched his teeth a moment before replying, then he said sullenly: “No. Last Sunday he saw us together. He asked me, in very ambiguous language, to call upon him at any time, that he would be happy to serve me. He seemed to be pleased to see us, Adelaide and me, in close conversation. However, I’m sure whoever she had chosen would have been equally acceptable to him. His first consideration, he assured me, is her happiness.” He hesitated. “It’s no choice of mine to be stirred up in the same pot with him. He is loathsome. But I’ve Adelaide to consider; I’ve to remember what has been done to her.” He added, roughly: “I’ll not engage in any dirtiness, except perhaps in this one instance. Anything else I do, in conjunction with our Mr. Wilkins, isn’t going to have a smell about it. And I have an idea that whatever I want, the scoundrel will work to give me. I assured him, very bluntly, that beyond this one occasion, I’ll not engage in filth with him. And he said: ‘That’s right, me lad. I allus give ’em wot they wants. If you want all fair and aboveboard, we’ll do it together. It’ll be a relief for a change, somethink different, and interestin’.’”
Anthony imitated Mr. Wilkins to perfection, in his furious annoyance. Andrew and Mr. Gorth burst out laughing.
“‘I allus give ’em wot they wants,’” repeated Mr. Gorth, quite purple in the face with his uncontrollable mirth.
Anthony discerned that he could ignore his poor mother no longer. He turned to her, flushing.
“Mama,” he said in a changed voice, “I hope this hasn’t been too terrible for you? I hope—”
Eugenia looked at him with strange fixed eyes, in which the brilliance was too intense. A long tremor ran over her. Then, without a word, and with infinite dignity and pride, she rose, turned away from Anthony, and left the room, walking as composedly and regally as ever, her head held high.
Anthony watched her go.
His attention was caught by Mrs. Gorth plucking at his sleeve, and simpering up at him, her liver-coloured face alight with malice and satisfaction.
“What a young man it is, to be sure!” she exclaimed. “It seems, then, that you’ve done excellently for yourself, Tony. Do let me give you a kiss and my best wishes.”
CHAPTER 60
Even if Andrew had felt an impulse to go at once to his wife, an impulse he did
not feel in the least, he would have been delayed by Richard Gorth’s insistence that he, his nephew and his nephew’s son, join him for a glass of wine “for the health and happiness of the young couple, and especially the bride.”
Anthony, fuming with his haste to be out of this house, where all now seemed chuckling contentment, secret and malevolent delight, and great good fellowship, and to return to Adelaide, was forced to smile, to listen to the toasts, and to express his thanks. His disgust at the whole past hour rose in strength. He saw himself the prisoner of forces which he could not oppose, even if he had wished. And he was not certain that he wanted to oppose them.
He was finally allowed to go, after a knowing remark from Mr. Gorth that “of course, one should not keep a bridegroom from his bride, and give her our love, my dear lad, our best wishes for her recovered health, and extend to her the hospitality of our home.”
Thereafter, Mr. Gorth and his nephew had a long and edifying conversation, during which they laughed much together, and congratulated each other. Anthony would certainly not have enjoyed the discussion.
It was much later, more than two hours, before Andrew lightly ascended the staircase to the apartments he shared with his wife. Another man would have shrunk from confronting the poor woman in her agony, her humiliation and shame and ruin. But Andrew did not shrink. This was the last, the final punishment, he would inflict upon her: these hours alone with her thoughts. Thereafter, matters would be quite different between them. He smiled a little, as he opened the door.
Eugenia was sitting near the window, in the shadow. In that large plush chair her figure was very small, but straight and rigid and calm. She turned her pale and haughty face to Andrew when he entered, but did not move or speak.
He drew a chair near her and studied her silently. He saw the gray shining of her eyes, her firm pointed chin, the smooth white brow, the quiet hands on her dove-gray silk lap. She appeared the same to him, as always. Yet his acuteness, the subtlety of his perceptions, assured him that some catastrophic change had overtaken her. Her eyes met his; he saw their abysmal shame. Her head was erect; he saw her broken pride and misery. All about her were broken pillars and fallen walls, the ruin of her life.
He must be careful, he warned himself. He must not let her say the things her anguish and despair might force her to say, and her shame and humiliation. He must not let her say the things that would rush to her lips, things of terrible confession that would make it impossible to take her hand thereafter and lead her away. The impossibility would be in herself, not in him. The spoken word was sometimes a sword that forever barred the way to peace and reconstruction. That word must not be said.
He began to speak very softly and gently: “My dear, it is not so awful. Of course, I understand. The girl cannot come here. Our welcome was only allegorical. Moreover, I believe that the impasse will never occur. Eugenia, will you go back to England with me?”
Her white lips parted; her eyes flashed. He saw them suddenly filled with proud tears.
“Andrew, there is much I must tell you. It is my duty to tell it to you.” Her voice was low and neutral, but it shook uncontrollably.
He lifted his hand. “Let me speak first, my dear. I’m not a man of great volubility. You will grant me that? Then, let me speak.”
Her mouth moved, but she was silent. However, the eyes so steadfastly fixed on his were filled with humble grief, with a prayer for forgiveness, with the hopelessness that such forgiveness would be granted.
“Tony has disappointed us,” Andrew resumed. “However, that is his own life. The young cannot carry on the quarrels of the old. For that, I must confess, I am thankful. Think of us going on into old age, keeping alive our dislikes and our feuds and our resentments! How very tedious! How boring! Can you imagine anything less exciting than rereading old books until one’s yawns lift the top of one’s head?”
He continued, without giving her a chance to speak, though she lifted her hand in a slight and helpless gesture.
“I, for one, confess that John Turnbull no longer interests me. He did, at one time. A natural phenomenon. Now I find him tiresome. Let Tony contend with him. But I have the thought that Tony will find John as tedious as I now find him, and that John is as weary as I am.
“It all happened a long time ago, did it not? A very long time ago.” He paused, then said musingly: “It is strange that the huge immensity and tragedy of life pass, and others say indifferently: ‘It happened a long time ago. It is no longer of significance, and certainly of no significance to us.’”
Eugenia clasped her hands tightly together.
“One makes errors; one is engulfed in pain and anguish; one does evil things. And one believes that in these moments he is the center of the universe. Instead, he shares the common impulses of all men, and perhaps of all animals, and even insects. However, he cannot believe it. Such was never endured before; such will never be endured again. But years later, others say: ‘It was so long ago.’ They say that, if there was any memory left at all of the one who suffered or erred or endured spectacular death. For the majority of us: well, we are forgotten, along with our passions and our mistakes and our pain. There is nothing left. We should remember that, and not take ourselves too seriously. At the very least, we should be silent.”
Eugenia could not control herself any longer, and cried out in a thin wild tone: “I can’t keep silent! I must tell you!”
He reached out and took her hand and held it strongly. Her face was alive with a moving hysteria, a desperate bleakness. He controlled her by his own will. She subsided. Now her expression was all desolation; all pleading. And, he saw, all humble love.
He continued as if she had not spoken: “Therefore, we must not take this matter of Tony and the girl very seriously. We have approached the richest part of our lives, when we may have peace and contentment. Tony is in the midst of the riot and the confusion. Do you wish to share it with him? Do you wish to engage in it again? As for myself, never!” His voice rose with amused emphasis.
He said: “We have had our disappointment in our son. But, he is a full human being, and his life is his own. Let him live it in whatever peace he can. He did not disturb our lives. Let us refrain from disturbing his. We must respect his dignity.
“Of course, I know it is humiliating for you to accept as a daughter the child of a drunken fool and a barmaid. However, this is America. Such things are not of importance here, fortunately. It will not affect us. We shall return to England. Very shortly, I shall inherit my uncle’s title. We shall have a life there of richness and fullness. America was never for us. We both realize that. It was not because we were old when we came. We were, in fact, very young. Yet, in our minds, we were old and fixed and grooved to fit one pattern. We never fitted here. We must return to the only place where we can be happy.”
She was weeping now, her head bent and averted. His strongest impulse was to take her in his arms and comfort her. He restrained himself, but held her hand tightly.
“It is not an eternal separation, Eugenia, my dear. Ships go constantly to and fro across the ocean. Later, Tony will visit us, with his wife. In another setting, she may not appear so impossible. Too, she is a young lady of fortune, and that is very pleasant. From Tony’s description, she cannot be hideous. I grant him some taste. Her manners are probably very agreeable.”
“Andrew, I must tell you something,” she whispered, not looking at him.
He pretended not to have heard her. “Eugenia, there is a new life for us. You have not been happy. I have thought, perhaps, that you knew, that you suspected—” He paused, as if in the greatest embarrassment.
She heard the change in his voice, and turned to him quickly. He dropped her hand and stood up. He stood near the window, half turned from her.
“I have given this matter much thought. I have thought that things are best left unspoken. I am still wondering if this is not true.”
He spoke in a low and reluctant voice, very convincing if its
intonations were only assumed.
“Eugenia, as I have said, there is a new life for us. Now, assume for a moment, that I say to you: ‘I am sorry. I am devastated. But some devil in me urges me to confess that I have often betrayed you in the past. These infidelities came from my ignorance, my errors, my foolishnesses. Nevertheless, they exist. Let me pour them all out to you, even if they forever destroy our future life together, our peace, and make it impossible for us to continue together.’ What would you say to that, my dear?”
She was silent for a long time. For so long indeed, that he thought that she had fainted, or had risen and left him. And then he heard a soft movement at his side, a light touch on his arm. He turned to her slowly. She was looking up, and her gray eyes were wet and radiant, her mouth shaking and smiling.
“I would say, Andrew,” she whispered, “that you must not tell me of those things. I would ask you not to burden me with them. I would ask you to save our lives for us, and not cloud them all over with confessions that cannot be taken back, with things that can only corrode and ruin.”
He took her hands quickly, and held them with hard strength. He looked down into her face. She returned his look with high head, with courage, with sadness. And with supreme love.
“I will not say them, then,” he said, with a catch in his voice. “They are dead. They never happened. The—man who did them does not exist any longer. There is just you, now, my dearest, and I. We were born today.”
He took her in his arms now, and kissed her lips with passion. She clung to him, weeping again, nestling her head on his shoulder.
The Turnbulls Page 65