The Eagles Gather

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Christopher continued to examine his hands, palm and back. Then he slowly lit another cigarette. He examined the tip critically. He seemed to be absorbed in thought. Nothing could have been calmer than his manner and his gestures. But Peter saw the swollen veins in his narrow sunken temples, the blue lines at the edge of his lips.

  He cried out: “Celeste, don’t you see what he is trying to do to you?” He could stand it no longer. He stood up. He faced Christopher, and in a loud hard voice he said: “I know you. I know what you are. I know what you’re up to. But you’re not going to hurt Celeste. She’s going to marry me. You’re not going to browbeat her, and poison her; you’ve got to get past me first.” He bent over the girl, who was rigid and bemused. “Celeste, don’t let him hurt you. Can’t you see What he is doing? Let me call your mother—.” His heart was pounding with increasing pain, and he found it difficult to breathe.

  Christopher said casually: “Don’t be an ass, Peter. Sit down. I hate heroics. I’m not up to them. Like you. I’ve always conducted my affairs like a mature human being. I’m sorry if you can’t meet me on equal ground. Besides, it’s up to Celeste, after all, isn’t it?”

  He flicked off the ash of his cigarette. And again Peter was overwhelmed with a sensation of ridiculous impotence. He was bitterly disappointed in Celeste. She had not replied to him; she had not looked at him. She seemed intent only on her brother. When Christopher had spoken, her lips had parted and her breath had exhaled in a deep, almost broken, sigh. Peter felt thrust out, an importunate stranger who was more than a little insolent, more than a little intrusive, a stranger who had no right to be in this room, involved in any difficulties between brother and sister. He stared at Celeste, shaken to the heart. He could not believe that she could sit like this, ignoring him, caring only for her brother, hearing only her brother. There was a cold dignity in her expression now, since Peter had spoken; she seemed to be rebuking him for his interference in a matter which did not concern him, and in which he had apparently taken part out of sheer busy-bodiness and vulgar impudence.

  The feeling of illness increased in Peter. He was mortally sick with it; he felt that in a moment he would retch. He was humiliated, stricken. All at once he had no desire but to leave this room, and never see either of the occupants again. Celeste was no longer Celeste, the girl who loved him. She was only the sister of Christopher Bouchard.

  And then he knew that he was playing directly into Christopher’s hands. His vehemence, his anger, his appeal to the girl, had only set her against him. He not only had Christopher’s subtle venom to fight, but also Celeste’s devotion to her brother. He was overcome with a profound sensation of despair. But his mind was clearing. He sat down again, tried to control the tremors that ran over his body.

  Instantly he was rewarded, for he saw by the slight change in Christopher’s expression that he had not expected this self-control, that he had felt that he had succeeded in thrusting Peter out, and that Peter had felt the psychic thrust, and would leave. But Peter had both felt the thrust, and had decided not to leave. A sensation of unfamiliar power strengthened him. He had clashed with Christopher, and it was Christopher, struck, who was recoiling. It was Christopher, retreating, who was eying him, and plotting a new attack. So Peter waited, all his senses alert, his mind clarified and cold as ice.

  Christopher’s eye was caught by the flaming opal on Celeste’s finger, where Henri’s ring had been. He smiled venomously. “Where did you get that—thing, Celeste?” he asked.

  The girl started. Color came into her pale face. She put her hand with a sudden protectiveness over the opal. And both Christopher and Peter saw that the former had been defeated again.

  “Etienne gave it to me,” she answered. And now her eyes were strong and steady, rebuking. “It was a present. Because I am going to marry Peter.”

  And she turned to Peter for. the first time and smiled at him. Her young face was drawn, but full of courage and love. She gave him her hand. His sense of triumph was so great that he felt weak and dazed. Her deep blue eyes were wide, and welling with light. Rings of black hair curled on her damp forehead.

  Christopher looked slowly from one to the other. He did not see them; he saw the end of his revenge, the end of his life. He saw defeat. And defeat was something which maddened him. It was a mortal insult to his vanity, the one blow he would never forgive. This idiot idealist, this imbecile young girl with the foolish smile! These two had defeated him! These two had struck him down and had stupidly walked over him to their feeble-minded heaven. And here he had been left, waiting for the hyenas in his family, the enemies in his family, to gather about him and laugh him into the final ignominy.

  He knew that Armand and his faction suspected him, that they were sniffing closely on his trail. Within a few days they would be upon him, knowing everything. For one blinding and horrible moment he thought of suicide, and sweat broke out of every pore in his body. His violent thoughts drove the blood to his heart, and an intense agony radiated through his chest. The cold and virulent Christopher Bouchard was thrown against the very outposts of despair, and driven almost to madness. He thought: I am going to collapse.

  Nothing of what he was suffering showed on his face, which except for grayish pallor was quite composed and almost indifferent. He could make his voice strong and firm when he spoke:

  “Peter, you understand that I’m Celeste’s guardian? Even when she is twenty-one I have control of her fortune for another nine years?”

  Peter was not aware of the falseness of this statement. He said: “It doesn’t matter, I assure you. I have enough for both of us.” He smiled into Celeste’s eyes. She smiled back. Their hands tightened their hold on each other.

  Christopher sighed. He stood up. He walked up and down the room, slowly and thoughtfully. Celeste, suddenly anxious, suddenly frightened again, followed him with her eyes. He stopped in front of her and regarded her gravely. He forced his gray lips to smile. He made himself put out his hand and smooth the girl’s hair. Somehow, in spite of himself, in spite of the terrible hatred which had replaced his love for her, the feel of her soft hair under his hand gave him an intense and intolerable pang. He was conscious of having to make a great effort to remove his hand. He could not understand his pain, so unfamiliar, so disintegrating.

  He said: “You can do what you want to, Celeste. I have no physical control of you. I’ve been your guardian since our father died. I hope I’ve been good to you, and that you have nothing to complain of—”

  Celeste’s eyes, which had been full of fear, now moistened. She regarded her brother gently and lovingly, touched and shaken with remorse. “Oh, no, no, Christopher. You’ve been so good to me.” She burst into tears, through which she tried to smile, imploring his forgiveness.

  Christopher sighed. Peter studied him alertly and fearfully. What new and dangerous subtlety was this scoundrel about to embark upon? He put his arm about Celeste; she leaned towards him, but still gazed yearningly at her brother.

  Christopher spoke again, very gently: “Yes, Celeste, you can do what you want to do. I want you to be happy. But I’m going to ask one thing of you. And Peter.” For an instant his light vitriolic eye struck Peter like a lightning flash. “I’m going to ask you to take just a little more time. I’m going to ask you to keep this matter quiet. Until you are more sure. I think you owe that to both Henri and me, don’t you?”

  “Why?” said Peter with cold directness. “What does Celeste owe to you?”

  He cursed himself for this false move, for again Celeste’s almost imperceptible withdrawal rebuked him. She gazed at her brother with passionate earnestness.

  “Yes, Christopher, that’s only fair. I know that. We’re sure, though, Peter and I. But perhaps we’d better wait a little while before telling anyone—”

  Christopher smiled slightly. Again he put his hand on her hair. For the first time it visibly trembled. ‘‘Thank you, darling. You see, your happiness means more to me than anything else in th
e world. Young girls change their minds. You changed yours, you know!” and he smiled at her with indulgent humor. “Let’s be sure this time. Get more perspective on the problem. Be fair to Henri. Compare him with— Peter. Suppose, for instance, that you don’t say anything for at least a month? And in the meantime, see nothing of—Peter, during that time?”

  Peter uttered a vehement exclamation. But Celeste said, looking into her brother’s eyes: “Yes, Christopher, you are right.”

  Peter could hardly believe what he had heard. He stared at Celeste incredulously. But she was smiling at Christopher, who had put his hand on her shoulder. And again he felt thrust out, and impotent, and hopeless, and despairing.

  Christopher had the genius of being able to follow up an advantage immediately. He turned to Peter. Nothing could have been more tolerant, more amiable, than his expression: “And you, Peter: you’ll help Celeste, won’t you? You’ll help her to be fair?”

  The eyes of the two men met. Peter rose slowly. They stood, facing each other, Celeste between them. They looked at each other with mortal enmity and bottomless hatred, and complete understanding. You, said Christopher’s eyes, can do nothing. Everything you say will help to ruin you. And in the meantime, I’ll do everything I can to destroy you.

  And Peter’s eyes replied as violently: I’ll fight you. I’ll never give up. I know all about you, and there’s nothing I will not do to defeat you.

  CHAPTER XLV

  Peter and Celeste left Christopher’s room. Peter kissed her good-by outside the door. “You won’t forget me, darling?” he asked.

  “Peter, how can you say that?” She clung to him, cried a little, smiled. “But a month is a long time, isn’t it?”

  Yes, too long, he thought somberly. She was tired, she said, and did not want to go downstairs. So he went down alone. She remained at the top until the curve of the stairway hid him, then she ran into her room and locked the door.

  The lower rooms were still empty, the guests still outside in the grounds. But Adelaide was waiting for Peter at the foot of the stairway, from which she had not stirred. She looked up at him mutely as he descended, her dry lips moving, her hands clasped convulsively together. He put his arm about her. “Don’t worry, Adelaide,” he said gently. “It is going to be all right. Go to Celeste; she will tell you all about it.”

  She cried out: “It’s Christopher, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head. “Christopher has nothing to do with it, Adelaide. Just go to Celeste. She isn’t going to marry Henri.” He tried to smile. “She’s going to marry me.”

  She shook her head despairingly. “I can’t go to Celeste. She shuts me out. She never wants me; only Christopher. She won’t let me help her. It’s always been Christopher, Peter.” “Yes, I know,” he said in a low voice. He pressed her arm. “We can’t do anything, you and I. We can only hope that things will turn out for the best.” He added: “And I’m going to see that they do.”

  They heard footsteps descending the stairway. It was Edith Bouchard, pale, smart and composed. “Hello,” she said calmly. She smiled at Adelaide. “Do you mind terribly if I take Peter away for a little while. I want to talk to him. Peter, how did you get here?”

  “Etienne lent us his car, Edith. But I’m afraid it’s returned to New York now.”

  “Aren’t you going to stay over the week-end?” asked Adelaide, in a sort of panic.

  “No, I’m afraid I’m not.” He pressed his lips together in the cold obstinate Bouchard expression that Adelaide knew only too well.

  Edith seemed to take on gaiety. “Then I’ll drive you back to the city, myself. Oh, dear no, it’s no trouble at all. It’s frightfully hot. The air will do me good. May I?”

  Peter hesitated. Then he recalled that he would have considerable difficulty returning to the city unless he accepted Edith’s invitation. He had no particular dislike for her; in fact, he rather admired her, and knew that she liked him in spite of many things. He also knew that she was not the person to put herself out for anyone; this offer of hers had an ulterior motive. The thought somewhat amused him. She read his thoughts, and could not help smiling, though he noticed that she was unusually pale. Her black-and-white print dress set off her slender agile figure; her black hair was smooth and waveless. Her dark skin had darkened considerably during her days at Crissons. As usual, she was cool and perfectly poised.

  “Thank you,” he said at last. He turned to Adelaide and held out his hand. “Don’t worry, Adelaide, please.”

  She clung to his hand despairingly; he could feel its rigid tremor. But she smiled through her suffering. “I won’t, Peter,” she replied.

  Peter and Edith went towards the door. Then little Jean and his large Wagnerian wife entered. They stared at him in surprise. Jean’s dimpled face beamed with cunning delight. “Peter! Well, this is a pleasant surprise! I didn’t think you were coming for the week-end.” He extended his hand, shook Peter’s hand vigorously. In the meantime his small dancing eyes searched the other man’s face shrewdly. What he saw pleased him immensely, excited him. “Well! Well!” he exclaimed again, and there was an exultant note in his amiable voice.

  “I’m not here for the week-end,” said Peter, amazed at his brother’s extraordinary friendliness. “I came only a little while ago. Now I’m going. Edith is going to drive me back to the city.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t permit that imposition!” Jean beamed at Edith, whose expression reflected her sudden wariness. “I’ll take you back, myself.”

  Edith interposed coolly: “But I wanted to talk to Peter, privately.”

  Jean stared at her intently, then looked at Peter. Apparently, he was more delighted than ever. He chuckled. “Well, talk to him, then! We’ll leave you alone for a few minutes. Until I get out my car.” And without waiting for an answer he hurried out. His big blonde wife stood in the center of the hall, blinking uncertainly. Her masses of yellow hair gleamed in the lamplight. Her great bosom and shoulders were as white as milk, vividly revealed by her dress of black chiffon. Edith, vexed, understanding much, frowned at Alexa, who was immediately intimidated. The poor woman had never been distinguished for her intelligence. Peter, uncertain what to do, turned to Edith.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Edith shrugged. “It can’t be helped, I suppose.” She studied him earnestly. “Then it’s all over between Henri and Celeste? Am I to congratulate you?” Her lips twisted ironically.

  She had spoken almost in a whisper. Alexa colored violently, and almost wept with embarrassment.

  Peter shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to say anything just now,” he replied. “Suppose you ask Christopher?”

  She still searched his face. Her own lightened.

  Jean had appeared in the driveway with his car. Without speaking again to Edith Peter ran out and got into the smart red coupé. Soon they were rolling along the broad dark highway towards the city. The air was full of salt and cool freshness. Jean did not speak for some time, and then in a voice of the utmost friendliness:

  “Why did you have to run away?”

  “I’m staying with Uncle Etienne,” replied Peter, somewhat formally. He was still nonplussed at his brother’s extraordinary amiability.

  Jean laughed. “Etienne! Doesn’t he always play the back side of the horse in Ben Hur? Why the hell are you staying with him?”’

  “I like him,” said Peter angrily. “He’s decent, which is more than can be said of the rest of you.”

  Jean was highly entertained. “Oh, I don’t know. We’re not so bad. Why do you persist in making dragons out of us? Our State wouldn’t amount to much without the Bouchard family. We are directly responsible for its prosperity, its fine schools, libraries, museums and excellent hospitals. We’re responsible for lowering the tax rate, and reducing poverty. We give employment to thousands upon thousands of men. We’ve built churches and research laboratories, and have endowed universities. What more do you want? We are the State.”

  In a very cu
rious voice Peter said: “Yes, I’m afraid you are. But perhaps, in the end, we won’t let you be.”

  Jean was puzzled. “What did you say?”

  “I was just making a private observation. Please go on and tell me more about how wonderful we are.”

  Jean grinned. “Well, for instance, the government would be pretty feeble without us. We give it excellent Senators and Congressmen, not to mention governors and mayors.”

  “And munitions lobbies, anti-labor lobbies, anti-democracy lobbies, and anti-disarmament lobbies,” added Peter.

  “Dear me, we are powerful, aren’t we?” said Jean in a high mincing voice. Peter could not help laughing.

  “But seriously,” Jean went on, “why don’t you stop giving us black eyes? I hear reports. Lots of people are nasty enough to say you are looking for pre-publication publicity. Others say you are a mediocrity trying to avenge yourself on the more showy members of the family. Others say you are just a trouble-maker, a fool, or worse, an idealist full of crackbrained theories. All this isn’t very nice for the rest of us to hear. You’re a Bouchard, and we have a family feeling for you—”

  “Have you?” asked Peter. Jean could not see his flushed face in the darkness.

  He shrugged. “Of course we have; don’t be a damn fool; Strange as it may seem, most of us like you! We’d like to see you settle down and get married, and be one of us.”

  Peter was silent. Jean waited, then went on: “You’ve got a lot of the Bouchard money. We don’t ask you to take an active part in any of the subsidiaries, or the Company itself. But we should like to see you take an interest. There’s a lot of work to do in the State, if you’re social-minded. Housing legislation, better men in public office, boards of education to be supervised, reductions in taxes, and many other things. Why don’t you begin with these?”