The enmity between Jules and his family on the one hand and Alice on the other never was lessened. Alice had liked her sisters-in-law, and when they came to New York after her marriage, she entertained them formally and pleasantly. But their husbands never entered her house. She bore Thomas no children. Within a year of her marriage, the society sections of the newspapers spoke of her as “a leading young matron,” and her dinners and banquets and parties, even in frugal wartime, were given lavish space.
Alice’s hegira was a relief to Jules. He had always disliked her. Had she been a sweet innocuous woman like Adelaide, his wife, he would have been fond of her in a way, though this would not, of course, have prevented him from manipulating her. But she had been vain and vapid, shallow and cunning, greedy and really heartless, all the things he hated in women.
The Bouchards knew quite a bit, but not all, of what had taken place. Some of them expressed a lukewarm indignation against Jules. But he had been the victor, and in their realistic philosophy, the victor was always virtuous, or at least justified. Besides, no one had particularly liked Alice or François or their children, while Jules was either loved or hated with fervor. Even those who hated him were fascinated by him.
But of them all, Christopher knew the most. He was the most like his father, and he understood things instinctively, for there was much that Jules did that Christopher would have done, and Christopher knew this.
Understanding so much, he knew he had only to wait. And wait he did.
CHAPTER XVI
It was the latter part of June, now, and the air was like lukewarm water. The wide lawns were a dazzle of green, the poplars tapered pillars of moving leaves. The hot sky pressed down over the earth like heated blue glass, and the air under it fumed and danced. But still Celeste and Adelaide and Christopher and the household had not yet gone to Crissons.
Adelaide was puzzled, but secretly grateful. She did not like the seashore very much, for it was damp. She was alternately afraid of and antagonistic to the people who visited Crissons upon her reluctant invitations, which were inspired by Christopher. She had always had a delicate skin, and the raw sunlight and hard salt winds injured it. Being fastidious by nature, she was revolted by the sight of half-naked rumps and wet bare thighs on the sands. She did not consider the average human form something which should be displayed indiscriminately. Once Christopher had declared that most of the women lying on the beaches looked like bloated corpses just washed in, and though she shuddered at the simile she admitted its truth. Then there were the sports which bored and wearied her. She found the summer dull and exhausting, full of noise and sand and boiling blue ocean and heat and uncongenial people.
But what was delaying their usual departure? Adelaide did not know. Every one else was puzzled, also, for Christopher’s household was usually the first to depart.
But discussion of Christopher’s unusual delay was lost in the indignation, incredulity and conjecture occasioned by Henri and Edith Bouchard, recently returned to the house where they had lived as children. Days before the two actually returned, the ladies of the Bouchard families had written informal and affectionate little notes to the house in Roseville, expressing their pleasure at the return of the exiles. They knew to the minute, these ladies, when Henri and Edith actually arrived. They waited one day, then called singly or in groups. They were gratified and amazed at the change in the grounds, which had been hurriedly but beautifully landscaped. The French windows of the house stood open on the rear terrace. There was an air of suaveness, dignity and charm about the house and grounds, which had certainly not been there for years. And then the most exciting and amusing thing had already happened: owners of old houses in Roseville, hearing of the imminent return of one of the wealthiest of the Bouchard families, had suddenly taken an interest in their abandoned former domiciles. Several of them, who had luxurious town apartments or houses, had decided to return, at least temporarily, in order to discover if the exiles really intended to live at Robin’s Nest. If they did, then the other owners would seriously consider returning. As a result, there was an enormous amount of activity going on in the suburb. Gardeners appeared in droves. Grounds were active. Formerly shuttered and boarded windows admitted new summer breezes. The old tennis courts were put into condition. Real estate values, naturally, boomed. Several families postponed going away for the summer, on hearing a rumor that Henri and Edith would not go away.
But when the Bouchard ladies, and the other ladies of the suburb, called upon the exiles, they were met by coldfaced if courteous servants, and respectfully informed that Miss Edith and Mr. Henri were “not at home.” Cards were left by the bewildered ladies. But no word came from the elusive two. Invitations were mailed. After a prolonged delay Edith’s secretary wrote polite but cold regrets. The telephone calls were answered as coldly: Miss Edith and Mr. Henri were still “not at home.”
Windsor was thrown into the most intense excitement. Those who had returned to the suburb were actively visited by friends from town. Some of them reported having seen Edith and Henri in their cars on the road. Their bows had been returned with slighting coldness and silence. Edith, they said, was very plain and dark and colorless, but quite definitely smart. Her brother was lighter, but a rather sullen young man, stocky and of a brutal if vital appearance. Neither was ever seen in town. And then, at last, visitors were not admitted through the gates, but were met and refused admission by the caretaker.
Excitement gave way to affront and indignation. “Why,” asked Estelle, “if they had no intention of resuming relations with the family, and becoming part of the community, did they ever come back here?”
Every one else was puzzled and asking the same question. But Christopher had an idea. The more he thought of the reason the more amused he was. And then he began to think very closely. The result of this thinking was the delay in going to Crissons.
“Don’t worry,” he told his female relatives one time. “Our young cousin, Henri, is here for a very definite purpose. I think I know what it is. We’ll be seeing them one of these days. Perhaps too often.”
He began to surmise what sort of man Henri Bouchard was, and to get the relationship between himself and the returned exiles clear in his mind. He recalled that his grandmother, Florabelle, was also their grandmother, and that his dead uncle, François, was their father. They were his first cousins. Doubly his cousins, for their great-grandfather, Ernest Barbour, had been his own great-uncle. The family’s practically full of incest, he thought with a smile. But apparently from reports, and from the possible reason for his return, Henri Barbour Bouchard was no weakling.
Indignation was still high when it was reported that the exiles’ old stepfather, Thomas Van Eyck, was visiting his dead wife’s children. Some of the ladies of Roseville recalled that they had friends in New York well known to the Van Eycks, and they wrote, to these friends. They had gratifying replies. Old Thomas, it was said, intended to live with his stepchildren in Roseville. He was a harmless and gentle old creature, very fond of Edith and Henri, who “positively adored him.” Gossip became thicker and more active than ever. The older ladies recalled that their dead father, François Bouchard, had been “quite a mess.” He had killed himself in that very house in Roseville. Their mother had subsequently married her second cousin, Thomas, in New York, Thomas Van Eyck of the socially prominent Van Eycks. And unbelievably wealthy, too. Hope began to rise in Windsor that the coming of the old man would make the exiles more amenable to social intercourse.
But nothing happened. It is true that old Thomas was driven out by one of the chauffeurs every day, and that when greeted on the roads he replied with evident gratitude and simple pleasure. Once his car had broken down, and a neighbor solicitously offered his home while the vehicle was being repaired. Thomas had hesitated, seemed a little frightened, and then with apparent regret, declined. He seemed eager, however, to speak, and it was most obvious that he was lonely and not very accustomed to easy familiarity with strangers.
The neighbor gave a careful description of him. He was tall and thin and bent and shrunken, probably close to seventy, from his appearance. He had thin white hair, gentle brown eyes, and a trustful if shrinking expression that reminded one of an uncertain child. His manners were awkward, but courteous with an old world courtesy. He seemed a trifle vague and unsure of himself, and his hands trembled continuously. While he exchanged remarks with the neighbor, as they both stood by the roadside, he kept glancing uneasily up and down the road like a child afraid of strict parents. Nothing could induce him to speak of his stepchildren, except to remark that he was glad they had come back to their own country to live. He, himself, intended to remain with them. His eyes had a shy brightness in them when he spoke of his stepchildren. He had parted from the neighbor with evident regret.
Then one day Christopher sat down and wrote a note to his cousin, Henri Bouchard. He greeted the other coldly and formally. The note was very brief. He wrote:
“It is possible that the return of your sister and yourself to Windsor is due to your desire to resume life here. But I do not think this is the sole reason. Perhaps I know that reason. If I am correct, you may regard me as a friend. If I am wrong, you need not answer this communication.”
He signed himself formally: Christopher Barbour Bouchard.
He waited. A week went by. Two weeks. And there was no answer. But he gradually became sure that an answer would be forthcoming. It was. It came by special messenger one morning, to the office. It was as cold and formal as his own note. Henri Bouchard and his sister, Edith, would be pleased to have their cousins, Christopher and Celeste, and their aunt, Adelaide, drop in for tea at five o’clock on the following Sunday afternoon. That was all.
Christopher held the note in his chill fieshless fingers, and smiled faintly. The pale bright spark grew in his eyes. A clerk came in to ask Mr. Christopher to go into the president’s office as soon as convenient. Christopher carefully put Henri’s note in his pocket and went to his brother. He found Armand fussily signing letters. Armand wore Oxford glasses, and they slipped on his fleshy nose, which was always of a greasy appearance. His rumpled coat collar and lapels were flaked with white, and he kept scratching his head as he read and signed. Christopher sat down, and waited. Armand, he reflected, looked old and fat and tired and harassed. The sunlight, streaming thorough the windows, showed how thin his graying auburn hair was, for it glistened on his scalp. He needs a bath, as usual, thought Christopher, distending his transparent nostrils with disgust.
Armand put down his pen and sighed. He regarded his brother in gloomy silence. There was something earnest and searching in the eyes behind the gleaming glasses. And something timid.
“There has been nothing more about the Russian order to Parsons, Christopher?” he asked at last.
“No, nothing. Frankly, I think they’d better forget that order. It is obvious that they won’t get it.”
Armand rubbed his forehead, and pursed up his mouth. “And you can get nothing more about Duval-Bonnet?”
“Not a thing. It is my honest opinion, by the way, that they are not as innocent as they appear. They are evidently controlled by people who stay in the background. When Parsons’ man went down there to see them, as you know, he had that same impression.”
Armand said irately: “But who? Who? What is all this? After all, there is enough in that order for both Parsons and Duval-Bonnet, if they could only get together— I’ve been pulling wires on the Exchange, too. We have nothing new, except that they are now listed, and the stock is selling for eleven a share. I don’t like mysteries!”
Christopher smiled, but was silent.
Armand continued to complain. There was a time when there was some integrity among businessmen. Now integrity was regarded as something shameful, something to be hidden, like an unclean sore. One could excuse lack of integrity where there was lack of markets, and competition was a game in which a man either killed or was killed. But there was more than enough for everyone, in America. In the world. There was no excuse for skullduggery.
“Not,” reminded Christopher gently, “that we are guiltless of skullduggery ourselves.”
Armand thrust out his lower lip. He smiled uneasily. “Well, not too much. Only what was necessary.” He waited. Christopher said nothing. Armand sighed again. After a moment or two he was embarrassed. He knew that Christopher thought him a fool. Perhaps he was. Perhaps Christopher was right when he had said that a longing for integrity rose from a secret impotence. He, Armand, was feeling chronically tired these days. He would like to rest for awhile. But he dared not rest; he could not rest. He glanced furtively but swiftly at his brother. What had Emile genially called him? “That thin silvery snake!” Ah, well. Name-calling might be clever, but he was not one for it. But men like Christopher made it impossible for others to rest.
He said aloud: “We’d like to have you and Mother and Celeste come to dinner next Thursday evening. We leave for Maine the following Saturday, you know.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell Mother.”
“When are you going to Crissons?”
“Probably right after you go to Maine.”
Christopher got up to go. Armand said: “No further developments out in Roseville? What the devil do you suppose is wrong with them? After all, they own nearly forty per cent of the bonds in Bouchard. That’s a lot of money! Well, if my memory about them is right, they’re a pair of disagreeable brats. They made Uncle François’ life miserable, they and their fool of a mother. She was our second cousin, wasn’t she? The family’s all mixed up. Anyway, I remember that they were ugly and black and sharp. Someone said Henri was the image of old Ernest Barbour. Probably a good thing he’s got bonds instead of stock.”
Adelaide was surprised when Christopher showed her Henri’s note. He carefully refrained from telling her that he had written first. She was not disposed, at first, to accept the invitation, for she had unconsciously begun to dislike her seclusive niece and nephew. But Celeste was surprisingly pleased. She would have something exciting and gay to report to her young frail niece, Annette, whom she dearly loved. Celeste was fond of her brother, Armand, Annette’s father, but she did not feel so fond of Antoine, Annette’s brother, and her own nephew.
For some mysterious reason Christopher was critical about his young sister’s appearance before they left for Roseville. Finally he was satisfied. Celeste, he decided, was charming, old-fashioned and lovely in her simple dress of soft blue chiffon, not too short, and fastened at the natural waistline with a belt of linked and twisted silver. She wore a string of luminous ivory pearls about her white throat. A wide-brimmed leghorn hat shaded her face. In its shadow her eyes were dark blue and vivid with life and gaiety, and her lips were moist and very red. Her slender legs were perfect, he decided. He was quite satisfied, and therefore, unusually affectionate towards her.
He even felt tolerant of his mother. Adelaide looked distinguished and highly bred in her gray silk chiffon dress and white gloves and black hat. She would have been amazed to know that her youngest son was proud of her evident breeding, if not of herself, personally. She was feeling distinctly bitter against him today. She did not know exactly why, but her maternal instinct smelled danger, and danger to Celeste. Some prescience was aroused, and in consequence her voice, if low, was irritable when she spoke to him. This antagonized Celeste, who felt that Christopher’s extraordinary amiability ought to have been rewarded with greater pleasantness. Whenever he tries to be nice, she thought, Mama inevitably becomes sarcastic and disagreeable to him. Dear me, sometimes I don’t blame poor Christopher.
But her gaiety could not be suppressed. The house in Roseville had seized on her imagination. She had not been able to forget the portrait of Gertrude Barbour.
Everything was beautiful to her today. The trees were hot green fountains, their moving shadows thick on the roads. She took delight in everything, in the straight square back of the chauffeur, in Christopher’s wry witticisms, in the curve of countrysi
de running beside the car, in the swift wings of birds. She liked to catch the brilliant light in the ring of exquisite opals and pearls and diamonds which Christopher had given her for Christmas. Excitement and joy in living made everything luminous in her eyes. She overlooked her mother’s somber silence and averted head.
They approached Robin’s Nest. The gates were ajar. The caretaker allowed them to pass. They drove up the curving road to the house. There it stood, Georgian, severe yet beautiful, shimmering with green ivy. There was a stern loveliness about the grounds, something formal and classic. Celeste, feeling disloyal, thought how delightful it was compared with her own home. They were admitted to the cool duskiness of the reception hall. How different it was, this summer’s day, to that night of storm and darkness and lightning. The shrouds were all off the furniture. The dust was gone from the dark mirrors of the floors. Everything was polished and formal and waiting. Flowers were everywhere, standing before pier glasses, on round tables of gleaming mahogany, on the shining expanse of the piano, on marble mantelpieces, and even on the sills of the opened French windows. Celeste had an impression of polished formality, of cool dimness, of radiant sun-filled windows, of flowers and leisure and taste. Despite the heat outside, the plaster-and-gilt ceilings and lofty walls and quiet made one feel composed and at peace. There were no heavy carpets here, but small Oriental rugs scattered at strategic spots on the dusky brightness of the floors. Even Christopher could not feel oppressed here, for all that the furniture was old and there were silken ivory lengths at the windows. He particularly liked the dim and delicate winding of the circular staircase of the reception hall.
The Eagles Gather Page 16