The Eagles Gather

by Taylor Caldwell

  Still she said nothing. The breeze moved through the trees, and they began to lift restlessly in the darkness. Behind them, the great lofty chateau high on its terraces was a blaze of yellow lights. Music flowed out dreamily from its open windows. Rain was apparently close, for all at once the moving night air was full of pungency and sweetness, as though a whole flower garden had been bruised.

  “Celeste?” Peter stepped closer to the girl. He was not mistaken; he saw the gleam of her eyes, and knew that they were gazing at him intensely.

  “Yes,” she said at last, in a distant voice, like one speaking in a half-awakened trance. “Yes, I’d like you to come.”

  Then, abruptly, she had turned again, and was running down the slope towards the river. He followed; once or twice he thought he had lost her, and then he saw the pale shimmer of her dress, leading him. The fresh strong wind told him that the river was close. He could hear its deep rushing sound. Finally, he saw that Celeste had stopped in an open place, and beyond her he saw the dark gleaming surface of the water.

  He came up to the girl, and they stood side by side, looking across the river to the tiny yellow lights on the other side. Minute torches ran in the darkness, indicating a motor road. There was no moon; the sky was invisible and imponderable, without light or reality.

  They did not speak. They listened to the faint music which seemed to be part of the night wind and the deep rush of the river. Neither knew when or how it happened, but their hands touched, and held. They did not look at each other or move, but stood there, gazing at the water, which gleamed faintly in a spectral light of its own, and seemed to speak in a slowly ascending voice. The wind blew stronger, and the music from the chateau grew louder, or sank, like tides of sound. Celeste and Peter became consciousnesses concerned only with wind and water and music and the contact of their hands and the awareness of pure joy. They felt the beat of each other’s pulses, and at last they did not know which pulse was individual and which belonged to the other.

  Then, at last, after a very long time, they turned and moved back up the slope, their hands still clasped simply. The pungency of earth and grass increased. They found a bench under some trees and sat down. It was completely dark here. The river could no longer be seen, but the wind brought the passionate rising voice of it to their ears. The limbs of trees bent and clashed, and the tree-tops roared, ominously, in the darkness.

  But there was a pit of stillness here, on the bench, under the trees. Peter could hear Celeste without difficulty, when she spoke in a clear soft voice: “I would never have promised to marry Henri if he had been connected with Bouchard.”

  At the mention of Henri’s name, a cold and bitter pang seemed to divide Peter. He said nothing. He shivered slightly. He moved away from the girl a little. But he knew that his movement must have surprised her, for he felt her gazing at him earnestly, though he could see nothing of her but the ghostly and fugitive glimmer of her white dress. He felt her touch his hand tentatively, and again he experienced this pain, only sharper and more unendurable this time. Her fingers closed about his with the simplicity and bewilderment of a child.

  “Peter,” she said uncertainly.

  “Yes, dear,” he replied gently.

  She did not speak for several moments, and then in the same clear soft voice of grave bewilderment, she said: “I never told anyone. No one ever talked to me about it. But it has always seemed to me that the munitions industry is wicked. I—I never spoke about it to Christopher; I thought perhaps it might hurt him—”

  “Hurt him!” thought Peter with somber bitterness. But he said aloud, again, more gently than before: “Yes, dear.”

  She sighed. “No one ever spoke of it, that I can remember. You were the first. Then all at once, I knew I wasn’t foolish; I knew I had been right, when I heard you, at dinner. I knew you were right.” She added, “I don’t think you ever could be wrong, could you, Peter?”

  His voice was surprised and tender: “I? But my dear, I’m often wrong. You see, I set out to tilt at windmills, and fight dragons. But though it is heroic, it is also foolish. There is a system in attacking, and especially when you are dealing with men—like—like—well, faithless men, you need science to attack them. Finesse. And knowing what they are. At first I didn’t know, and my foolishness made me impotent. Now, I know. And even then, I’m afraid I’m frequently wrong.”

  “But not about—this, Peter?” she asked eagerly.

  He forgot his pain temporarily in his effort to answer her clearly and justly: “No, I don’t think I’m wrong, darling. Better men than I am think as I do. We all know that today, this very moment, hundreds of faithless and irresponsible and vicious men are plotting against the peace of the world, and the happiness of all men. And if they succeed, and they probably will, they will bring about a war and a world-condition which will mortally threaten civilization.”

  “But—what about the League of Nations?”

  Peter laughed shortly and drearily. “The League of Nations? It will disintegrate at the first blow, the first aggression, because all nations today are governed by treacherous and greedy men, without honor or principle.

  “Look, Celeste. See how peaceful it is here, now. Nothing more violent than the wind. All over the world, peace and wind and water, and the people feeling safe. And yet, in every capital, in every gathering of diplomats and their masters, this safety is being plotted against, and ruin being blueprinted for South America, for our country, for Europe and Asia.”

  “But, why?” asked Celeste.

  Peter sighed. His hand tightened on hers, protectively. “Men have always been greedy, but the conscience of the people, however betrayed, has finally overthrown the oppressors. Today, the peoples of all nations have no consciences. Today, there is little faith and endless evil.” He paused. “Sometimes I remember the 24th Chapter of St. Matthew: ‘And because of the iniquity which shall abound, the love of men shall wax cold.’ The iniquity of universal greed and hatred and perversion and cruelty, the iniquity of faithlessness and irresponsibility and lack of self-discipline and dignity and gentleness and justice.”

  His voice was lost in the sudden surge of wind, and they sat silently, their hands closing passionately on each other, as though they had heard a threat. The trees writhed about and above them, filling the darkness with fury and violence. Celeste felt the cool impact of heavy air in her face and against her breast; it tore away her breath, leaned smotheringly against her mouth. She averted her head from it; her head touched Peter’s shoulder. When the gale retreated, with far-off roars and clashings, her head remained there, and he hardly breathed, that he might not disturb her and cause her to remove it.

  “I can hardly believe it,” she said faintly. “We’re so civilized, now. It seems impossible that there’ll ever be another war.”

  Peter did not answer. He had put his arm gently about her. His lips touched her hair.

  They sat like this, without speaking, until the far roaring came nearer again, like a savage and invading army. Celeste raised her head and said quickly: “But what can you do, Peter?”

  “I can’t do much, dear,” he answered sadly. “But what little I can do I shall do.”

  The wind struck their trees with greater violence than before, and Peter’s arm tightened about her. She felt his arm, but hardly heard or felt the mighty wind surging about them and battling with the trees. It seemed to her that the roaring and writhing air was filled with Peter’s words: What little I can do I shall do! In the midst of that bellowing turmoil, in which the earth, was lost and dissolved, the words he had said sounded as clear as a trumpet, as pure and triumphant as a bell. Exhaustless and victorious, they remained when the wind had gone screaming on in the darkness, giving evidence of the chaos of air and tree and night by distant tempestuous thunder.

  In a lull, they climbed slowly up the slope and the terraces towards the chateau. The black clouds were torn into violently twisting shreds, and slivers and splinters of blazing moon appe
ared among them. They climbed like children, their hands still held. They stopped suddenly. Someone was strolling towards them, smoking a cigar. It was Armand. He was surprised to come upon them, and stopped, taking the cigar from his mouth.

  “Hello?” he said questioningly. “Where’ve you been, you two?”

  “A long way,” said Celeste. She looked at Peter, and repeated, louder this time, and in a strange excited voice: “A long way, haven’t we, Peter?”

  He was silent. He tried to release her hand, but she held it tighter. He felt it tremble and turn cold.

  Armand said nothing. Peter felt his piercing eyes trying to read his face. Armand had not moved, but there was a sudden tenseness about him which communicated itself to Peter.

  Then Armand said absently: “Christopher’s been looking for you, Celeste. He wants to leave.”

  She turned to Peter, and he saw the pale shimmer of her face. She withdrew her hand. They faced each other, and Armand, like a darker shadow in the transparent darkness, watched them.

  Celeste did not speak. The approaching wind lifted her dress and blew it about her like spectral mist. Her hair blew back. Her young breast was outlined, and her throat, and her round thighs.

  “Good-night, Celeste,” said Peter, very gently.

  She turned away, suddenly and swiftly, and was gone, running up the final terraces, seeming to be blown by the wind. Peter watched her go. But Armand watched Peter. Side by side, finally, they mounted the terraces. They saw Celeste shining like a white bird on the upper terrace, illuminated by the light from the opened windows. And then she was gone.

  Armand said thoughtfully and slowly: “I am a little worried about Celeste, Peter. Men of my age don’t usually have little sisters, like this. My own daughter is almost her age, and so,” and he laughed awkwardly, “I have a paternal feeling for Celeste, too. That is why I am worried about her engagement to Henri Bouchard.”

  Peter asked quietly, and without apparent interest: “Why?”

  Armand was disappointed, but he said: “I suppose this bores you, but I’ve got to speak to someone.” He laughed with increasing awkwardness: “Celeste has been so sheltered. I’ve been talking to my mother. She is sure that this marriage will hurt Celeste. It’s a little hard to explain. Henri is—well, he’s like Christopher, in many ways. Celeste, Mother believes, will some day find out what he really is, and that will be the end of her. I’m not so extravagant, but I do think the marriage is ill-advised, as far as Celeste is concerned.”

  Peter was silent. They had reached the upper terrace now. Armand, humiliated, thought that the younger man had no intention of speaking. But just as they approached the French doors, Peter stopped, looked at him straightly, and said:

  “What does Celeste think? After all, that is all that really matters, you know. Doesn’t she care about Henri?”

  Armand hesitated. “Well, you see, Celeste hasn’t met many young men. Christopher didn’t approve of it; he’s her guardian, you know. And Henri’s good looking and competent, and knows what he wants. A girl like Celeste might find him masculine and romantic. She seems to like him.”

  Peter turned his head aside. “That’s all that really matters,” he repeated. And he went in, and left Armand behind.

  Christopher did not notice Celeste’s unusual silence on the way home. He was too amused by his own thoughts. He was usually secretly amused after a family gathering, for his hatred caused him endless entertainment. His thoughts turned to Peter. He said: “Just an amateur Cataline.” He glanced at his sister. “What did you say, Celeste?”

  “Nothing,” she murmured. “Nothing at all.”

  Christopher chuckled. “Emile’s right, of course. This is just pre-publication publicity. I wonder if the idiot can really write?” And again he asked: “What did you say, Celeste?”

  Adelaide was sitting up in bed, reading. She was sipping a glass of hot milk, hoping that it would help her to sleep, and obliterate the hours of tormented darkness. Her bedroom door opened and she saw Celeste standing on the threshold. She was so surprised, so pathetically delighted, that her eyes dimmed. “Come in, darling,” she said, her voice shaking. “Come in!” She gestured towards a bedside chair. “I’m so glad you came in before going to bed. Sit down, dear.”

  Celeste sat down. Then Adelaide noticed for the first time the girl’s disordered dark hair and white face and shadowed eyes. She noticed how Celeste had fixed her eyes on her mother’s face, and how intensely brilliant they were.

  “Dear, are you ill?” she cried, throwing back her light silken covers, and preparing to get up.

  “No, Mother, please,” replied Celeste hurriedly. She tried to smile. She stood up, hesitated, looking down at her mother. Her arms hung helplessly at her sides, like a child’s. She moistened her pale lips, tried again to smile. “It’s nothing. I—I just thought I’d come in and say good night.”

  Adelaide gazed at her with intense yearning. “I’m glad, dearest. I’ve missed you.”

  Celeste moved her arms restlessly, then walked away. She paused beside Adelaide’s dresser, and regarded the simple silver implements on it blindly. Her head was bent. The intense yearning, and now something else, deepened on Adelaide’s shrunken and haggard face. “What is it, dear?” she whispered.

  Celeste spoke hurriedly, not lifting her head, and speaking as though there were some intolerable pain in her breast: “I don’t know what to say. But I can’t marry Henri.” Now she lifted her head sharply and stared at her mother with startling anguish. “You mustn’t say anything! You mustn’t tell anyone! I don’t know what’s the matter with me!” And then she burst into tears and covered her face with her hands.

  Adelaide lay motionless for a long time. The room dimmed before her. In the dimness Celeste was outlined with preternatural light. Adelaide heard her own voice speaking, dry and faint: “Celeste, I’ve wanted you to say that more than I’ve ever wanted to hear anything else.”

  Her face still covered, Celeste shook her head passionately: “I don’t know! I must find out. I’ve got to find out, alone. You mustn’t say anything about it.” She dropped her hands and turned distractedly to her mother: “You mustn’t say anything! I’ve got to find out, alone, all alone. Do you understand?”

  Before Adelaide could answer, she had run towards the door. She had half opened it, then stopped. Without turning, she said in a muffled voice: “I almost forgot. I’m supposed to tell you. Peter is coming to dinner tomorrow night.” Then she closed the door behind her.

  Adelaide did not move. She stared at the opposite wall. The milk cooled in its glass, and thickened against the crystal sides.

  CHAPTER XXX

  Edith and Christopher had let Henri and Celeste ride ahead through the sunlit green of the bridle path. Then Edith reined in her horse and regarded Christopher somberly: “Don’t you think Celeste looks tired and ill lately, Christopher?”

  He looked at her dark smart face under the brim of her brown felt hat. “Yes,” he admitted, frowning. “I’ve noticed that. I was hoping it was just my imagination, though.”

  The leaf-patterns flickered over Edith’s cool colorless cheeks and were reflected in her straightforward eyes. “It isn’t your imagination,” she said abruptly, and rode on a few feet, then stopped again. He followed.

  “What is it then, Edith?”

  She shrugged. Henri and Celeste had disappeared.

  “It’s your fault, in the first place. You oughtn’t to have shut her up the way you did. Then she would have had more discrimination. She wouldn’t have been taken in by a holy exterior and pious words. She would have been able to recognize a fool when she saw one.”

  He was silent. His hard motionless eyes fixed themselves mercilessly on her. He was so close to her that she saw the paper-wrinkling of his cheeks and the sharp corners of his set lips. She shrugged again. “All I can say is that my brother isn’t going to get any bargain. If he gets it at all.”

  She uttered an angry cry, for he had seized he
r wrist in his bony fingers and had twisted it suddenly. “What do you mean? Come on, tell me: what do you mean?”

  She struggled to release herself, but could not. She stopped, panting, her face flaming, her eyes flashing fury. “Don’t be an idiot. Let me go, Christopher.”

  He tightened his hold and twisted her wrist again. Her horse lifted his head uneasily, and neighed. Christopher’s own horse started and moved away a little, so that the man leaned sideways in his saddle. But his lean narrow face was venomous. “Tell me, Edith,” he said, very quietly.

  She struggled briefly again, and then seemed to be aware of the indignity of the scene they were creating. She regarded him with cold rage, her struggling halted. “You are a melodramatic ass, Christopher. Let me go this instant.”

  He retained his grasp for a moment. Their eyes struck each other. Edith’s nostrils flared out to exhale her affronted breath. Then he let her go. Scarlet marks, deep and bruised, sprang out about her wrist.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, in a voice as dull as a stone.

  She rubbed her wrist, flexed her fingers. Then suddenly she laughed, angrily and contemptuously, but her eyes sparkled. “When we’re married, I’m going to teach you better manners, old boy.”

  She spurred her horse and rode on. He watched her go. Her narrow hard back was as straight and slender as a boy’s. She had an excellent seat, easy and light, her legs were trim and slender. At a bend in the bridle path she stopped and waited for him. He rode up slowly, reined in his horse. Blue flecks had appeared about his pinched nostrils. His facial bones seemed just beneath his skin. He took off his hat, for the day was warm. Edith saw that his forehead was wet.

  “Of all the emotional fools!” she exclaimed derisively. “Anyone would think I had told you that your sister had been raped, or something. Instead of that she is all tremulous about that imbecile relative of ours, Peter the Hermit.”