Adelaide hated this pretentious place, this embarrassing affectation. The dark splendor of the baronial hall, the grave dim portraits between the banners, the lofty coldness and dignity, seemed cheapened by these faces, these bare shoulders, these gestures and these toneless voices. She kept glancing about her uneasily, half expecting to see some haughty woman in coif and ruff and jewels appear, the candelight on her pale stern face.
But most of her attention was centered on Celeste, sitting between Christopher and Henri. The girl’s silver dress shimmered in the uncertain light. The delicate strength of her facial modelling had taken on coldness and hard pride. Her black hair sprang backwards and downwards from temple and forehead. Of all the Bouchards there at that dinner, she was the only one who seemed to have a right to be in this hall, under the droop of the motionless banners. She wore Henri’s ring.
Annette was there, too, for the poor child was unable to refrain from going to those places where she would see Henri. Her thin white silk gown seemed not to be disturbed by the slightest breathing under it. Her childlike face had a feverish whiteness about it, and her dry lips were brilliantly red. She appeared to be wasting away. She laughed softly but continually. Her beautiful light blue eyes, so deep-set but large under the clear broad brow, were full of a sort of haunted radiance. Adelaide, sadly, commented upon the fact that Peter’s eyes were startlingly similar to Annette’s. They had the same heroic square inner-corners, the same steadfast and luminous quality, the same gentleness and purity. Adelaide thought: Perhaps I haven’t been very kind to Peter. Perhaps I’ve misjudged him. Perhaps he saw Celeste too clearly.
Annette’s pale shining hair was rolled upon her neck. Her tiny white hands glittered with rings, her one weakness. As she talked, shyly and softly, she moved her hands, and the rings winked and blazed. Her father sat beside her, and seemed oblivious to anyone else. When she looked at Henri, she took on a fragile incandescence.
After the first or second glance, Adelaide guessed the truth about the poor.child, and a sick chill ran over her tired old body, an agonizing compasssion. She thought passionately: Peter and Celeste. Annette and Henri. In this way nature could modify innate ferocity.
She had come here tonight for one purpose: to speak to Emile about Celeste. Emile, who seemed less her son than Christopher; Emile the dark and bloated, the cunning and opportunistic, with his reputation for loyalty, and his treachery to all men. Adelaide had no hope that he could offer her any help, for he was, said Armand, “hand and glove in ‘it’ with Christopher.” But she could leave nothing undone, or unsaid.
It was not until after two hours that she could isolate Emile in the immense drawing room, and then, because he was restless, and was already eying another group at a distance, and because they would soon be disturbed, she said quickly, in a low voice: “Emile, will you help me? Your little sister, Emile. Don’t let her marry Henri. She doesn’t want to, really.”
He was smiling across the room at someone else. He still smiled, not turning to his mother, but the look of his profile frightened her. He said, almost out of the side of his mouth: “Don’t be silly. Of course, she wants to marry him. And if she doesn’t, she’s old enough to make up her own mind.” Apparently the person at whom he had been smiling bad beckoned to him, for he started away and left his mother.
She stood alone, in this isolated corner, desolation in her heart. She saw that it was Christopher who had called his brother to him. Across the immense space, she watched them talking casually. They were giving the impression of friendly but easy conversation, quite impersonal. But some psychic prescience told her that Emile had already betrayed to Christopher her pathetic effort to save her daughter. Across that space she saw the needle-flash of Christopher’s oblique glance in her direction. Then she heard them laugh.
A sense of horror pervaded her, an awareness of something sinister and deadly cold. What enemies were these, which she had riven from her flesh! Her feeling of betrayal was almost deathly. She felt alone, with icy winds about her, for all the many people passing and talking and laughing in her vicinity.
She turned to look for Celeste. Across another space she suddenly encountered the dark grave eyes of Edith Bouchard, who was also alone. Edith was regarding her steadfastly, and Adelaide had the impression that she had been watching her for a long time, unnoticed.
CHAPTER LIV
Edith Bouchard was not surprised when a few days later on a quiet, early fall afternoon, Adelaide came to see her. She had been out in the garden, gathering asters and zinnias and petunias, and came into the room, now, her arms full of rich purple, gold and orange blooms. Above this riot of color her thin dark face was watchful and reserved, but not unkind, when she saw Adelaide. Her black straight hair had become loosened out in the warm blue wind, and this, and her expression, gave her the look of the portrait of Gertrude Barbour, which hung on the sunlit wall, and which confronted that of Ernest Barbour in endless accusation.
Edith put down the flowers. “Well, Adelaide,” she said, almost gently, but with a warning note already cool in her voice. Adelaide had not spoken. One of her gloved hands had involuntarily moved, as though she had intended to speak. She did not stir until Edith had bent and touched her lips to the furrowed cheek. And then, without volition, the old woman burst into anguished tears. She wrung her hands; she tried to speak, but her voice was choked with suffering.
The younger woman was startled, and taken aback. She frowned faintly, glanced at the doors to see if the servants had heard anything of this extraordinary outburst. Her sense of propriety and reserve was disturbed. And then, as she looked at Adelaide with some censoriousness, the frown smoothed out between her eyes, and a troubled expression took its place. Her mouth softened with compassion. She sat down beside Adelaide, she took her trembling, almost convulsed hand in hers, and pressed it firmly. She said, over and over: “Now, please, Adelaide. Please. Adelaide, do try to control yourself. Please.”
But Adelaide had no need for reserve and control now. She had gone beyond these petty reins on her agony. Her flat drained figure bent almost double; the tears streamed down her sunken face. Her sobs racked her, twisted her. And Edith saw that nothing could be done until the paroxysm of grief and torment poured itself out on the stream of tears.
She, herself, felt a sort of shame and pain, as though she had betrayed someone helpless and defenseless. She bit her underlip uneasily, as she waited for Adelaide to weep herself into exhaustion. She studied the bent and shuddering body, the white disordered hair, the wet and tortured eyes. She saw the hands fluttering at her wordlessly, imploring. Finally, she could not stand it any longer, but got up suddenly and went to stand under the grave and mournful portrait of her grandmother, who had been so cruelly betrayed and destroyed. From this position, she waited for Adelaide to become more quiet, more reasonable.
Adelaide was exhausted. She had wept herself out. She wiped her eyes. Then, looking across the room at Edith, she cried out brokenly: “Edith! Edith, you must stop your brother from marrying Celeste!”
Edith was silent. The cold dark mask of reserve slipped over her face. Through its opaqueness she regarded Adelaide without speaking.
Adelaide sighed. Edith winced at the sound, but she did not move. Then Adelaide spoke again, in a low shaken voice: “I’ve watched you a long time, Edith. I know you love Christopher. I know you think that by helping him you will turn him to yourself. You think that Celeste is a very small thing to sacrifice for Christopher. You think even your brother is worth sacrificing, don’t you?”
A dim pallor moved across Edith’s face, she still did not speak. But her eyes dilated.
Adelaide stood up. She came across the room to Edith with quick feeble steps, and Edith, not moving, watched her come intently. Adelaide put her hand on Edith’s unresponsive arm. She looked up into her eyes, not accusingly, not angrily, not with feverish importunity, but with understanding and pity and solemn earnestness.
“But, Edith, don’t you know
you are sacrificing Christopher, too? Don’t you know that by helping him to get what he wants you will be helping him to destroy himself? If he succeeds in getting what he wants, that will be the end of him. Because of your selfish love for him, he’ll have lost the last chance he has of becoming human again. Celeste is only a small part of all this. There’s something greater going on in his mind, of which Celeste is only one part. The only hope for him is to be defeated. The only hope for all of us, and for yourself, is for him to be defeated. Edith, save my son! Help me to defeat him. Isn’t he more important to you than yourself?”
A stark fixity made Edith’s features like stone. Only her eyes, full of irony, were alive. “This is fantastic,” she said at last. She looked away from Adelaide, across the room. “But suppose it were all true. What could I do about it?”
Adelaide seized her by both arms, as though she were trying to force the young woman to look at her. She succeeded. Now the irony was full of pain and uncertainty.
“Edith, it is true! And you could help me! You could speak to Christopher, or to your brother!”
Edith felt the thin old fingers bitting into her flesh. She looked down at the quivering face, the pathetically smiling lips, the old tears. She closed her eyes on an involuntary spasm, opened them.
“I don’t know,” she said sullenly. “I’ve got to think about it. I still think it is fantastic.” With a light fierce brutality, she shook herself free of Adelaide’s grasp. But Adelaide still stood before her, and her gaze held the younger woman in a grip stronger than that of hands.
“Please go way, Adelaide!” she cried, losing control of herself. “I tell you, I’ve got to think!” And then she went out of the room as though she were running away.
CHAPTER LV
“Hardly anyone is back in town,” said Edith to her bother, as they ate dinner alone together. “But I’m glad of that. We can have a little peace. In two weeks this town will be a bedlam, with your happy nuptials and everything.”
Henri drank his coffee and regarded his sister over the rim with some amusement. “You don’t seem happy over the prospect,” he answered, putting down his cup.
“I’m not,” replied Edith, slowly. She averted her eyes. “I hate confusion. I wish, Henri, that we’d never come back here, after all.”
He was surprised. “No? Why not?”
He thought she would shrug and answer offhandedly in her usual manner. But she said nothing for a full moment, and then he was more suprised than ever: “Because you wouldn’t have seen Celeste.”
He raised his eyebrows, and smiled. “Now, what’s the matter with Celeste? You two never did seem to get along well with each other, I’ve noticed. But I thought yon had become reconciled. After all,” he added, his smile broadening to a grin, “you both love me.”
Now she lifted her eyes, and he was startled at the dark passion in them. “No, Henri, you’re mistaken. I’m the only one who loves you.” When he did not speak, but only stared at her with a darkening expression, she added vehemently: “It’s true, Henri! That silly little thing doesn’t love you. She doesn’t want you. Henri, she doesn’t deserve you.”
He was about to reply angrily and contemptuously, his face flushing, when he noticed, for the first time, that she looked ill and distraught, and that she had not touched the food on her plate. In the very midst of his anger, he was touched and concerned. His voice was much softer than she had expected, when he said:
“Oh, Edith, don’t be ridiculous. What does that kid know about anything, anyway? Besides, I want her. And that’s sufficient for me. That ought to be sufficient for you, too.” “No,” she answered, very quietly, “it isn’t sufficient It’s never enough for only one to love. I don’t want you to find out how true that is, Henri.”
He was more touched than ever. He offered her a cigarette, and lit it for her. The drifting smoke seemed to enhance the strained tired look about her eyes and mouth. He thought: Poor Edith is a very plain woman, unfortunately. She resembles our father too much. He said: “Now, let’s get down to candid facts, Edith. I’ve been around, among women. You know that. Celeste is no different from any other woman. She may not ‘love’ me, as you say so damned romantically. What the hell is love, anyway? My guess is as good as yours. And so I know that, though Celeste is a little ignoramus about the fine points of ‘love,’ no other man will ever satisfy her.”
Edith colored faintly. The hand that stirred her coffee shook. He thought, watching her narrowly: She’s too agitated for it to be only me. There’s something else.
Finally she said, her voice trembling: “I wish we’d never come back. I wish we could go away, just you and I. We were so happy together, Henri, in England and France. We’ didn’t seem to need anyone else but each other. We were friends, as well as just brother and sister.”
He thought: She’s jealous of Celeste! He was quite moved, and his face warmed with affection.
“Well, dear, we’re still friends, aren’t we? Oh, come, every sister thinks the woman her brother marries isn’t good enough for him, or beautiful enough, or intelligent enough. In fact, God couldn’t make a woman splendid enough. Don’t let’s be emotional about this, Edith.”
She said, looking at him with gravity: “Henri, if you were sure that Celeste didn’t want you, would you go ahead and marry her?”
Again he scowled at his sister, and answered. “Yes, I would. It’s not what anyone else wants that bothers me. It is just what I want.”
“Even if you wanted something that would be too terrible for you?”
He shouted with laughter, abrupt and brutal. “Nothing would be ‘too terrible’ for me, except not getting what I want.”
They went into the drawing room. It was warm dusk, here. The French windows stood open. The sky beyond was the deep and brilliant blue of evening. In this passionate hushed light the autumn grass was vividly green, the trees still and washed in radiance. They could smell the warm wind, spiced and rich, full of the breath of distant harvests. A robin was singing his farewell song, his globed silver notes falling into the fulfilled quiet.
Edith sat down in the dusk, near a window. The diffused light made her plain clever face appear more haggard, less colorful than ever. Unhappiness was an aura about her. Henri, infected by her in spite of himself, stood at another window, smoking, pretending to be casually interested in scanning the sky. He was sorry for his sister, and impatient with her. She saw his profile, and thought, as hundreds had thought of his great-grandfather: His face is carved out with an ax.
“When you come back from your honeymoon, I won’t be here, Henri,” she said. There seemed to be a knot in her throat.
He turned to her, and smiled indulgently. “Now, don’t be funny, Edith. Of course, you’ll be here. This is your home, as well as mine. Besides, it wouldn’t amount to anything without you. What does Celeste know of managing a house?” When she did not answer, he added in a gender tone: “Besides, dear, I want you.”
He waited. She still did not speak. He thought again: It’s something else besides me. This annoyed and offended him vaguely.
She sighed at last, and repeated, as though talking to herself: “I won’t be here.”
He shrugged. “Have it your own way, then, Edith. You’re hysterical. I’m surprised, too. I didn’t think you had it in you.” He paused. “Anything on for tonight? If not, I’ll run over and see Celeste. They got in this morning, didn’t they?”
Her voice was indifferent: “Yes, they got in. You don’t need to run over. I thought I told you: Adelaide and Christopher and Celeste are all coming a little later. Just dropping in.”
They came, Adelaide and her son and daughter, about nine o’clock. There was a change in Adelaide. She appeared quiet and firm, and much more composed than she had been for a long time. Celeste was serene. The little sparkle of gaiety which had always been present in her eyes, even when she was serious, was gone, and in its place was a restlessness. But otherwise, she was poised and casual, and apparently
much older. Christopher was jocose. He greeted Henri with fraternal affability, held Edith’s hand, and touched her cheek with the knuckles of his other hand. He saw that her expression was somewhat grim and hard, and wondered at it indifferently. And then, when her eyes touched his, they suddenly became suffused with a painful light, and she turned away.
The brilliance of the evening had gone. The air had become suddenly hot and sultry and sulphurous. Everyone was conscious that he had been making an effort at conversation, as though there were some psychic oppression in the air. They found themselves staring at each other apprehensively in the lamplight, and suddenly aware that no one had spoken for some moments. Eyes sought other eyes, searchingly. Christopher saw that Edith was deathly white, that her lips were set. He saw that Henri was uneasy and alert, as though conscious of imminent danger. He saw that Adelaide was wringing her hands in her lap, as though awaiting some expected and calamitous event. He saw that Celeste was affected by the atmosphere. She seemed frightened, turning her eyes slowly and questioningly from one to the other. Surely it was this psychic fright which made her young face so pale, and painted these dark shadows under her cheekbones, as though she had grown gaunt during the past few minutes. And then he remembered that be had been noticing these shadows very often lately, and had deliberately forced himself to forget them.
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