Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  The Spring twilight had begun to pour over the mountains, and the man almost faded into it. But Charles remembered the expensive clothing.

  The man said indifferently: “I’m expected. Not that it matters. And I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” He looked distastefully at the sunken wheel of the Ford, then at his gloved hands. Charles’ eyes narrowed. “I’ll take you up to Mr. Brinkwell’s,” he said, tentatively.

  “No,” said the man. He moved his head sharply in Harry’s direction. “You’ll have to get on the side with the mud, and I’ll push on the road side, when this gentleman has attached his rope.”

  So, Brinkwell didn’t want him known, thought Charles. He went back to his automobile, found the rope in the rear under the seat, and with Harry’s help he tied the two motor cars together. “Funny kind of feller, ain’t he?” muttered Harry. “Obliging as a sore tooth.”

  “Ever seen him before, Harry?” Charles almost whispered.

  Harry shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. Wittmann. Seems I have, and then it seems I haven’t. Or I’ve seen lots of people just like him. Looks just like everybody else, don’t he?”

  Yes, thought Charles. Anonymous. The rope was tied, Charles got into his automobile, and Harry returned to the rear of his. Charles put the red automobile into gear, shouted: “Shove!” and the rope tightened between the Oldsmobile and the Ford. He could feel it become taut, and shudder. There was a loud sucking noise, the Oldsmobile roared, swayed, gripped, and ground its wheels on the road. Then it was moving; Charles looked back; the Ford was out of the mud, and shaking all over as if with palsy. An instant later the stranger had disappeared into the Ford and Harry, panting louder than ever, but beaming and stamping his mud-coated shoes on the pavement, came up to thank Charles. “Don’t know how long I’d’ve had to stay there but for you, Mr. Wittmann! I’m certainly lucky.”

  Charles waved his hand, and went on. He heard the chugging of the Ford behind him. The mountain road divided a short distance ahead, and Charles went to the left, the Ford to the right. For some time, even above the noise of his own automobile Charles could hear that sharp and valiant clatter as the smaller machine climbed.

  The red roof of Wilhelm’s house began to rise above the trees faintly nebulous with green. It seemed to Charles that he had not seen this house for years. It stood there, remote and silent, with the dark mountains behind it, and its whiteness glimmered spectrally in the twilight as Charles approached. It had the air of a house remembered in a dream, strange and unreal and unwelcoming. Charles stopped the automobile at the door, which opened at once. The maid was new, and she looked at Charles inquiringly. “Mr. Wittmann,” he said. “I’m Mr. Charles Wittmann.”

  The girl led him into the hall, murmuring something. But Phyllis appeared suddenly, and exclaimed: “Charles!” The maid retreated, and Phyllis held out her hands to her brother-in-law. “It’s so good to see you again, Charles,” she said, and smiled, and scrutinized him anxiously in spite of the smile.

  He took her hands, and held them hard. She was the only reality in this house for him. The half-light blurred everything in the hall; the steep white staircase was made of unsubstantial smoke, and even the fire was only painted.

  “I haven’t seen you—for years, and years, Phyllis,” said Charles, and tried to laugh. Had this cool and aloof house always echoed like this, or had he just never noticed it before?

  Phyllis tried to laugh, also. Her hands had always been fine and slender but now they felt almost bony in Charles’ hands. It was probably only the deep purple velvet of her dress which made her face so white in the gloom, and so thin. But the fire sparkled on her rich hair.

  “Do come in and sit down with me in the music room, Charles,” she said, gently, drawing her hands from his. “You see, I tried to reach you, but Jimmy said you had left. Someone called Wilhelm, just after I had talked with you, and he told me that he had to go out for awhile, possibly until evening. Does it matter so much, Charles?”

  “Yes, it matters very much, Phyllis.” He stood there, sick with his disappointment. “I just have to talk with Wilhelm. Did he drive?”

  “No,” said Phyllis, wretchedly. “But you know what a walker Wilhelm is, and so he might be gone for hours. I—I didn’t ask him whom he was visiting, or who the caller was. It could be someone very near, or someone down in the city. Sometimes, when he’s walked somewhere, and it’s a considerable distance, he lets them drive him back. Under grateful protest, of course.” She laughed again, and the sound was as wretched as her voice. “I wanted to ask him who it was, but he was so short. Charles, something very terrible is happening to Wilhelm.”

  Charles was silent. Phyllis waited, then said: “But come and talk to me, and perhaps Wilhelm will be home sooner than we expect.”

  Charles looked about the hall again. Suddenly he felt its hostility, its withdrawal.

  “It’s very mild outside, Phyllis,” Charles said, abruptly. “Suppose we walk around for a little while, and then come back. If Willie’s here, then I’ll stay and talk it out with him.”

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  They walked slowly over the long, gravelled paths of the garden, and then up a slight slope, and then onto a broad promontory which overlooked the river far below, and the city. There they stood, very close together in a dusk so violet that it seemed less air than an element in itself, still but limitless, reaching from the water to the very sky. The town lights, at the base of the mountain, winked in and out like yellow fireflies, and the river was a purple plain beyond it in the cool spring wind, and the sweet scent of the gardens, newly stirring, came to them strongly.

  Beyond the river, and over the opposite mountain, the sky had turned an intense deep cobalt, and now the evening star, pure and white, shone in it with increasing brilliance.

  Phyllis stood beside Charles in her seal-skin coat, with a white lace shawl over her head. She listened while he talked. It seemed to him that he talked endlessly, while she did nothing but listen, making no comment, nor even turning to him. Her head was bent, and he could not see her face.

  “So, there it is,” he said, in conclusion. “And don’t think, Phyllis, that when I spoke of Brinkwell and his ‘mass-production,’ that I’ve anything against big business. It’s just that monopolies are dangerous, especially now, with everything that’s stirring. They won’t think, or believe, men like Brinkwell, that concentration of industry will make it that much easier for Socialism or something else like it to eat them up. The safety of the whole country lies in concerns like mine, in diversity.”

  Phyllis said: “You’re quite desperate, aren’t you, Charles?”

  “Well, yes, I am.”

  “And everything you’ve told me about an impending war, Charles—I believe it. You haven’t much proof, but still, I believe it. Charles, you know you can’t do anything about it, don’t you? Not even ten thousand or a hundred thousand men like you, anywhere.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “And, of course, it would do no good writing Congressmen, or anybody. For those who wouldn’t believe you would only laugh at you, and those who would know you’re telling the truth would only laugh louder.”

  “Yes.”

  They did not speak again, but only looked at the sky beyond them.

  Phyllis said, eventually: “Charles, you are desperate about your business, and your son. You can’t spend your strength worrying about any impending war; it wouldn’t do any good. You must just concentrate on your business, and just hope, and perhaps pray, that if war comes it’ll confine itself to Europe, as it’s always done before.”

  Now she turned to him and put her hand on his arm. “Don’t think of anything, until you have to, but the business. That’s the immediate thing. You know, the Bible does say: ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’ When you have to face other problems, that’ll be time enough.”

  “But it seems horrible, Phyllis, having to stand by and watch things develop.”

  “But you
can’t do anything about it. It’s too late, for anybody.”

  He nodded.

  “So, you can only attend to your own immediate affairs, retain your patents, refuse to be harassed by Jochen, and stop seething.” She laughed, a little sadly. “Poor Charles. I never thought you’d ‘seethe’ over anything except the shops.”

  Charles said: “Do you believe that, Phyllis?”

  She dropped her hand. “Not now,” she said.

  Again, they both stood and looked at the sky, shoulder to shoulder. Charles was very tired; the wind had become cold against his back; the trees talked louder in it, restlessly. The star in the cobalt sky glittered brighter. Charles thought of the Elégie; he could rarely remember any musical selection, but now whole phrases of the song of lamentation returned to him. A man’s loss, a man’s hopelessness, a man’s despair, for everything which had been taken from him.

  He said to himself: I must tell Phyllis about it. And he knew he couldn’t. It was the most pressing thing in him now, but still he knew he couldn’t tell her about it. Then he looked at her. She had covered her face with her hands and she was crying, silently. He watched her, aghast. He moved away a little, and said, roughly, “Don’t, Phyllis.”

  He kept himself from touching her, because he knew that she did not want him to touch her, for, once having touched, it would be too terrible. So he said again, even more roughly: “Don’t, Phyllis.”

  He could not allow her to speak, so he said: “Let’s go back to the house. Maybe Willie’s there by this time.”

  After mentioning his brother’s name he knew that it was safe to touch her. He took her elbow, and pulled her hand away from her face. She averted it from him, but not before he had seen her tears. He sighed. “Let’s go back to the house,” he repeated.

  They went back, not speaking, in the purplish darkness. They went into the lighted hall, where the fire was very low. A maid came and took their coats. “I’ll stay and wait for him,” said Charles. “This has to be settled.”

  It was then that they heard a carriage drive up, outside, and Phyllis cried: “It’s Wilhelm! But there’s someone with him. Never mind. We’ll find a way.”

  Wilhelm had walked all the way down to the city to Jochen’s house. Charles had not encountered him because there was a steep pedestrian country road which dipped from the house on Mountain Circle for some time before it joined the main road.

  Wilhelm had walked, rather than driven, because under all his volatile mannerisms and mercurial disposition was a stratum of good, hard, Wittmann common sense. He knew that should he drive he would arrive at Jochen’s home in an agitated state of mind which would preclude him from using his very sound gifts of detachment and coolness. He needed time; he needed a walk to give him a perspective. He had a deep capacity for passion, and he suspected it. Moreover, his life-long distrust for Jochen, and his natural distaste for his youngest brother, made him wary, in spite of all he had begun to believe of Charles.

  He thought of all that Jochen had told him and hinted to him during the past months, as his tall, black figure moved rapidly down the silent country road. He thought of what he had seen, himself. How much was lies? How much was his own imagination? He detested Jochen; he had his own suspicions that Jochen was using him against Charles in a particularly ugly fashion, and he knew why, to some extent. Thinking of this, he began to feel a cold and bitter rage against both his brothers. The time was past for hints and innuendoes. He was determined to brush aside the sticky webs of lies in the darkness and get at the truth. What if it were what he most feared? Now he thought only of Charles, and it was with hatred.

  Jochen, himself, admitted him with a hearty if somewhat somber greeting. Isabel was sitting in the great handsome sitting-room, dressed in gray velvet. She gave him her hand very seriously, and her pretty hazel eyes were sympathetic. Wilhelm wanted to say to his brother: “Can’t we be alone?” But that would be too impolite, even for a sister-in-law. Besides, he had a somewhat romantic idea that women were less likely to lie than men, and that they were naturally more compassionate.

  Wilhelm sat down, as far from the fire as possible. Lean and dark and withdrawn, he looked at Jochen. Jochen saw, with satisfaction, that Willie might put on an aristocratic and disdainful air of coolness but he was nevertheless deeply disturbed, and that he looked as if he had not slept well for a long time.

  Wilhelm regarded his brother and Isabel silently. His long thin fingers began to tap on the carved arm of his chair. Then he said: “Jochen, for months you’ve been hinting to me that there was—” He paused, with a slight grimace of disgust. “There was,” he continued, “‘something’ between Charles and my—my wife. And I’ve told you that it was not true, and that it was an insult to Phyllis, and myself.”

  Isabel said, with soft quickness: “Oh, Wilhelm, I’m afraid that isn’t exactly right. Jochen would never say a word against Phyllis; we not only admire and love her so much, but we’d not suspect her for a moment. She’s a lady. Please don’t be unjust to poor Jochen.”

  Wilhelm looked at her with a hard steadiness. “Isabel, it would be impossible to be ‘unjust’ to Jochen. I’ve known him much longer than you have.”

  Jochen scowled. He was alarmed. Isabel was puzzled; she did not quite understand. Then she remembered Wilhelm’s tone of voice. “Ambiguous,” she murmured.

  “Perhaps to you, Isabel. But I don’t think it is to Jochen. Is it?” Wilhelm glanced at his brother.

  “I suppose you’re being subtle,” said Jochen. “And I’m not sure that you mean to be complimentary, either.”

  Wilhelm slapped his palm on the arm of the chair. “I mean I want the truth. That’s all, just the truth. You called me, and said you had something circumstantial to tell me. Tell it, and let’s get it over.”

  Jochen looked out of the corner of his eyes at his wife, who prepared to corroborate whatever he said. “Willie,” began Jochen, “I’ve told you for months that we’ve both heard whisperings about—well, about Charlie, mainly. It’s all over Andersburg; you, being Phyllis’ husband, wouldn’t hear it. It’s an old aphorism—”

  “About the ‘deceived’ husband,” added Wilhelm, sarcastically, as Jochen hesitated.

  “That’s just it!” cried Isabel, eagerly. “Phyllis isn’t deceiving you!”

  “How could you insult your own wife like that?” demanded Jochen, outraged.

  Wilhelm smiled bitterly. “Go on,” he said, in a reasonable voice.

  “I’ve just told you what others have been whispering, and what I’ve overheard, and what’s been told me confidentially: that Charlie’s been molesting Phyllis, and embarrassing her with—with—”

  “What is melodramatically called ‘his attentions,’” interrupted Wilhelm, with contempt. “He’s been ‘pursuing’ her. I love those Victorian phrases. Go on.” He thought of Charles and Phyllis in the Brinkwells’ drawing-room; he thought of the glances exchanged by his brother and his wife, in his own home. He thought of Phyllis’ constant and gentle defense of Charles; he remembered all that he had ever known of how she had influenced him in Charles’ favor. There was much that Jochen did not know, or even suspect, but which Jochen’s hints had made him see for himself.

  “All right, all right, if you want to be humorous,” said Jochen, impatiently. “But it doesn’t sound right to me to be humorous when a man’s wife is being made the subject of gossip and scandal in the town, and without her being in the least at fault, herself, and only a victim. Everybody’s laughing behind his hand. The Brinkwells don’t know any of us very well, except perhaps Isabel and me.” Jochen unconsciously bridled, and Isabel preened in stately fashion. “So, they wouldn’t have any reason to be disturbed about anything, unless it was brought to their attention very forcibly. You know Pauline, Wilhelm. Do you think she’d lie?”

  “Of course she would,” replied Wilhelm. “The woman’s a ghastly fraud. And a vulgarian.”

  Isabel was horrified. But Jochen stopped her with a lift of his h
and before she could speak in protest. “Nevertheless, no matter what your opinion of Pauline is, Willie, you’ve got to admit she hasn’t any ulterior motive, and I’ve never heard her gossip just for the sake of gossip and meanness. In fact, she hasn’t gossiped about either old Charlie, or Phyllis. It was just that she heard rumors, and so she came to Isabel one day and she was very upset, and said that—”

  “That Isabel ‘ought to know’ what ‘people’ were saying,” added Wilhelm.

  “All right, put it that way, if you want to sneer,” said Jochen. “But we’ve gone over this for months. I didn’t believe it at first, myself, and Isabel absolutely refused to believe it. We have family pride, you know.”

  “Have you?” asked Wilhelm. “Please, don’t let us digest and redigest the whole thing. Let us examine absolute facts. You and Isabel saw Charles and Phyllis emerging from the woods last summer. You, Jochen, have seen Phyllis alone with Charles in his office, once or twice. I have, too. Phyllis was with Charles for over a week, when his boy was ill. Who else was there, to help him? I can see, though, that a dirty mind could put quite a significance on that perfectly innocent week. Then, there is that old matter of Charles and Phyllis once being engaged. Then, there are these alleged ‘scandalous stories’ of which you’ve told me. You told me other things, as slight as all these. You tell me that Charles is causing Phyllis embarrassment because of his ‘pursuit’ of her. She hasn’t mentioned it to me—”

  “Of course she wouldn’t,” said Jochen, sturdily. “Why should she bother you or make you angry? After all, we’re all brothers, and there is the company. But,” and he paused gravely, “has she told you that she’s written to him lately, at his office?”

  Wilhelm’s hand became still. “No,” he said, flatly, “she hasn’t. Has she?”

  “Yes. I saw the envelope myself. I recognized her handwriting. After all, I’d know it, after all these years of Christmas presents and notes to Isabel and the girls, wouldn’t I? But even that wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that the envelope was empty, and Charlie had just burned her letter.”