“Father, please. You underestimate our enemies.”
“In such matters, it’s as well to think of ‘enemies’ as ‘accomplices’ in a unified effort. I’m well aware of Stafford Shrikesdale’s suspicion of Roland, and of Bertram, Willard, Lyle—and others. But they’re stymied, you see. They don’t dare accuse ‘Roland’—they would never initiate a lawsuit. Philadelphia is too proper, my dear, for such scandal. And you might, you know, even ‘marry’ Harwood—I mean, Roland. To consolidate our history, so to speak.”
“‘Marry’! My own brother! That brute! That—murderer!”
“Millicent! Hush!”
This time, Abraham Licht brings his fist down hard on the table, and cups, saucers and silverware go flying.
Millie persists daringly, “He is a murderer. Twice over. You know, and I know. He killed that poor woman in Atlantic City, for which Thurston was blamed; and he killed Roland Shrikesdale III—obviously. Yet you seem to forgive him. You seem not to remember.”
“Memory is not an American predilection. Where it cripples action, it’s wise to forgo the past. For what is the past but—”
“‘The graveyard of Future.’ Yes. But it may be a blueprint of Future, too. For people repeat themselves in action; a man who murders once may murder twice, and a man who murders twice may murder a third time. It will be on your head, Father, if—”
“Millie, I don’t at all like your tone. This isn’t a Broadway melodrama, that you can stand there, bristly as one of those little yapping Pomeranians the Philadelphia ladies adore, and speak to your father so—arrogantly. In so masculine a style. What if someone overheard? We must always assume that our own servants may be spies in the hire of the Shrikesdales; just as one or two of theirs are spies of Albert St. Goar.”
“Father, really? Is that so?” Millie smiles, for this is news. “Who is it? And since when?”
“Since the day it became clear to me, seeing Gaston Bullock Means in Philadelphia, with dyed hair and moustache, that the Shrikesdales were in pursuit. Months ago. Exactly who, which of the male servants, you needn’t know; except to bear in mind that in the matter of spying and bribing, you must always hire men, not women. For a man—any man—is open to hire; but even a sensible woman may be handicapped by loyalty.”
At this, Millie laughs; goes away shaking her head, and laughing; as if the original subject of their conversation however grave, worrisome, profound has been quite banished by Abraham Licht’s good humor.
For perhaps Father is wisest after all. Perhaps we would all do well simply to trust in him.
7.
What an attractive couple!—and so unexpected.
Yet both seem shy of each other. Even she.
Aloof with other young men yet agreeably, modestly shy with Roland. Surely that’s a sign?
Only a quiet young woman could appeal to Roland. The more a young woman “charms”—the more terrified he is, and retreats like a turtle into its shell.
Poor boy. All he’s endured. So brave. So good. Anna Emery prays for him even now, you know—“That he marry, and have children, and become one of us.”
It seems that Matilde St. Goar and Roland Shrikesdale III are continually being thrown into each other’s company. By the design of Philadelphia dowagers in Anna Emery’s circle, as well as the enterprising Anna Emery herself; she’s one of those older women who under the guise of self-effacing solicitude possess a will stronger than a stallion’s. One day after Anna Emery’s repeated invitations, Matilde reluctantly agrees to accompany mother and son on a drive along the Delaware River north into Bucks County, that they might all “rejoice in the beauty of fresh air and nature”—for it’s a gloriously bright blue Sunday in winter, and much of the world fresh-coated in snow; and Roland has only just acquired a remarkable new imported car, a lemon-yellow Peugeot sedan with steel-spoked wheels, mahogany fixtures and cream-colored leather interior. Of this expensive car, Anna Emery herself is rather girlishly vain—“It quite suits Roland, doesn’t it? So handsome.”
Matilde is impressed, that Roland does indeed look unusually fit—for Roland—in a belted motoring coat of Scottish brown tweed and a brown leather cap with goggles and chin straps and gauntlets that give him a military air; even Anna Emery, near-blind, near-deaf, with a myriad of medical complaints and a perpetual head cold, looks quite striking in furs, seated plumb in the center of the Peugeot’s backseat. And here beside young Shrikesdale in a splendid ermine coat of her own with matching hat and muffler, a Christmas gift from her father, is Matilde St. Goar with ivory-pale skin and small fixed smile . . . having very few words to utter to Roland, as he has few to utter to her, for most of the two-hour excursion.
Is Mrs. Shrikesdale disappointed, that the “young lovers” are so stiff with each other? So reluctant, it seems, even to look at each other, even as she chatters, chatters, chatters to the backs of their heads? If so, she disguises it; she’s a well-bred, that’s to say stoical woman; a Philadelphia lady. Only when Roland swings back into the city to bring Matilde home to Rittenhouse Square, in the late afternoon, does Anna Emery murmur, “I had thought the day was beautiful, and so promising . . . ,” but neither Roland nor Matilde makes a reply.
At the St. Goar residence on the northeast corner of the elegant square, Roland parks the Peugeot at the curb and politely escorts Matilde into her building. Propriety dictates that he should take her by the elbow, but Matilde shudders at his touch. She says in an undertone, “You must not, you know—please, Harwood.” In his low gravelly voice he says, “‘Must not’ what?” She says, “Do away with her. That poor well-intentioned silly old woman.” He laughs. He squeezes her arm between thumb and forefinger so forcefully that, through even the thickness of the ermine, she feels a jolt of pain. “No need, I’ll soon have power of attorney. Father so advises.”
Perhaps someone is watching in the opulent overheated foyer: Roland with a shy suitor’s smile fumbles for Matilde’s gloved hand, in a gesture of farewell. Yet again she shudders, and clumsily shrinks from him. “Murderer!” she whispers. Baring his teeth around the ten-inch cigar her escort whispers in turn, “Nigger’s whore!”
8.
Sly little Mina slits her eyes, and Moira’s breath grows short with the danger, but it’s not to be avoided: haughty Matilde St. Goar in waves of gossamer white, pink-translucent pearls about her neck, must grant a dance to that tall cousin of Roland’s with the angry bristling moustache and knowing eyes, Bertram. “Bertie” to his friends—but the St. Goars are not his friends. I was sailing along on Moonlight Bay . . . singing a song . . . but neither Matilde nor her stiff dance-partner is listening to the words of the new, popular song for it’s clear, Millie thinks, this man knows. And his breath is a dog’s breath, hot and damp; and the nostrils of his aquiline nose quiver; and he says not a word to Matilde nor does Matilde say a word to him; yet in the dance, the two are locked together in understanding; an almost erotic bond.
The dance ends. The dancers step back from each other unsmiling.
Bertram Shrikesdale bows, murmuring, “Thank you, Miss St. Goar, for a most enjoyable and edifying turn on the dance floor.”
Matilde St. Goar makes the barest semblance of a curtsy, murmuring, “Thank you, Mr. Shrikesdale.”
AND YET MILLIE thinks afterward am I imagining it?
FOR ONE OF the hazards of The Game, she has come to realize, is that one may imagine too much. Or too little.
This morning at breakfast studying the hazy girl’s face reflected in a table knife smeared with raspberry jam as Father, whistling a strain of Don Giovanni under his breath, rapidly skims columns of newsprint making pencil checks beside certain stock market listings. Abraham Licht is in one of his good, mysterious moods. He’s been chuckling over the news that Henry Ford has leapt into the “war profits” fray with plans to manufacture airplane motors, submarine equipment and other military items—“Having given up, it seems, on peace.” (Abraham Licht has never forgiven Henry Ford for his great success wit
h the Model T and Model A automobiles, for a quarter century ago Abraham had hoped to manufacture a vehicle patented as the “horseless quadricycle,” an open sleigh-like chassis with four-cycle engine and thin wobbly bicycle wheels; this effort, predating Millie’s birth, she’s heard of only elliptically, and thinks must have been very silly indeed. Bicycle wheels! Yet Abraham Licht firmly believes that Henry Ford cheated him of his rightful fortune, as of his rightful place in American history.)
Millie says suddenly, as if she’s only just now thought of it, “You seem to be forgetting, Father, that you should be giving warning to Darian and Esther to expect a new stepmother soon. And you should bring them to Philadelphia to meet Eva, you know.”
“No, dear. I am not. Forgetting, I mean.”
Abraham Licht doesn’t glance up but continues to make checks against stocks.
“Well—are they to join us? For the wedding, and the rest?”
“No, dear. I don’t believe so.”
Millie stares at her father, maddening in his ambiguity.
“Excuse me, Father: do you mean you’ve told them about Eva and the wedding, or you have not?”
“So many questions, Millie! This isn’t an audition for a fluffy Broadway comedy, you know. You need not be arch and brittle with me.”
Millie pouts, Millie lets the table knife fall with a reproachful thump. It worries her that Father may be sharing more of his plans lately with Harwood than with her; not that Millie’s pride has been wounded, though of course it has been wounded, but that Father may be misled by Harwood, and bring them all to a disastrous end.
Millie thinks of Darian and of Esther . . . though it’s an effort. Her young brother and sister whom she loves, or would love if she could spend time with them; if life in Philadelphia weren’t so . . . consuming. Only the other day she received from Darian a copy of a song he’d written “For Millie’s Voice Alone Alone”—she took it to the piano and tried to peck out the tune, but there didn’t seem to be any tune. A queer composition, so many sustained notes above high C “in an angry elegiac tone.” Did Darian seriously expect her to sing this song? She had yet to reply to his preceding letter, or letters; she hoped he would forgive her. Guiltily she asked Abraham Licht if he’d sent flowers as he planned for Darian’s concert debut, and if he’d remembered to pay Darian’s tuition for the semester, and Abraham Licht said, annoyed, “I am the boy’s parent, Millie. I hope I fulfill a parent’s responsibilities.”
Nor has Millie taken time to thoroughly reply to Esther’s letters, which are of even less interest (to be truthful) than Darian’s. Esther writes, writes, writes about Muirkirk as if Muirkirk were the hive of the universe and not a dreary backwater village of no significance; her letters are churned out in a breathless schoolgirl hand, filled with allusions to people who’ve become, to Millie, no more than names: the Deerfields, the Woodcocks, the Ewings, the Mackays . . . and many more. The last time Millie saw Esther, she’d been surprised by her sister’s size: the girl is taller at twelve than Millie at twenty-three. (Both are a year older now.) Unlike poised, practiced Millicent, Esther is shy and yet talkative; rawboned and eager; graceless, gawky and well-intentioned, but not what one would call charming. “A female lacking in charm must have a good heart,” Abraham Licht once said, in another context; yet he might have been speaking of his own younger daughter. Esther has wavy dark hair inclining to coarseness, like a dog’s fur; her eyes are warm, intelligent, hazel-brown, of no special distinction; her frame boyish, with long gangling limbs and lean hips. Esther had shocked Millie by saying she wished to turn eighteen as quickly as possible and join the American Red Cross volunteers in France. “Why Esther,” Millie responded, “—how can you say such a thing? The mere thought of blood is repulsive. And we’re not yet in the war.” Esther said eagerly, “Oh but there’re many American girls and women working for the Red Cross, Millie, just as there’re many American men who’ve joined up with the Allies. The innocent victims of war need our help, you know, whether the United States has formally declared war or not.” Millie saw the logic of this; yet still the prospect of working with bodies, let alone wounded bodies, let along the dying, made her feel faint. Esther went on to tell Millie that, through church, she knew a woman who’d done volunteer work with the Red Cross Children’s Bureau in France, and another woman volunteer at a refugee hospital in Beauvais; and yet another woman who’d been near the front lines to work with the wounded and disfigured. There was a Red Cross unit in Paris attached to a clinic where artificial limbs and faces (metal masks of paper thinness) were fitted to mutilés, as they were called. “Only imagine, Millie, being allowed to do such work!” Esther said with shining eyes. “And there’s so much of it to be done.”
Said Millie, “I’m sure, yes, there is.”
Esther begged Millie to intercede with Father, so that she might begin her nurse’s training as soon as possible in Contracoeur, but though Millie vaguely promised her she would, she hadn’t said a word. It made her feel faint just to think of . . . mutilés. Poor stricken men (and women?) fitted with metal masks for the remainder of their lives.
Abraham Licht calls Millie back to herself by saying, in a more normal voice, the stock market listings set aside amid toast crumbs and congealing bacon grease, “To answer your original question, Millie: I’ve decided that it’s wisest to keep news of the wedding from Darian and Esther for the time being. All news, I mean, of their having a stepmother.”
“Oh Father. Isn’t that . . . extreme?”
A frown. Abraham Licht rises from the breakfast table rather abruptly.
“I mean, Father . . . won’t you ever see Darian and Esther? With Eva? They aren’t to be forgotten, are they?”
Still Abraham Licht frowns, glowers; as if confronted with a singularly slow-witted daughter.
“Oh! I see,” Millie says, embarrassed. “It’s Eva you don’t want to know about them. One stepchild, Matilde, is more than enough. I see.”
“Indeed, yes,” Abraham Licht says, in a better mood now that Millie hasn’t disgraced herself, and on his way out of the room, “—one is more than enough.”
9.
The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is everyone that is born of the Spirit.
A tattered dream, a remnant of the previous windblown night. She’d been a child again in Muirkirk in thrall to her mad, vengeful mother. A child again, conceived in sin. A wretch whom only Jesus Christ might save.
Your mother was a religious lunatic, Father has said.
Your father is the only savior you require. Reason, sanity and strategy.
Standing at one of the tall windows of her bedroom in the sixth-floor apartment of the Rittenhouse Arms staring at the snowy square below: the crescent walks, the frozen fountain at the center, the great leafless elms. Having given so much pain to the woman who was my mother it’s fitting that I endure pain for pain’s very sake.
Still, Millie’s frightened. What will become of her after her father marries Eva Clement-Stoddard? Must she marry, too? And . . . whom?
10.
At a festive though crowded soirée at Longue Vue, the country estate of the Marcus Van Hornes, Albert St. Goar draws his daughter away from the circle of young bloods that has surrounded her, to whisper in her ear: “Do you see, Matilde, that woman across the way, chatting with Roland and his mother?—in the green crêpe de chine dress—her hair that flaming chestnut-red? Yes: she is the one I mean. She’s Senator Collis Swift’s wife Lucille—so we were introduced, a few minutes ago—she and her husband, up from Virginia, are houseguests of the Van Hornes—yes, a reasonably attractive woman, for her age. Now what I should like you to do, dear,” St. Goar says, speaking now rapidly, and gripping Matilde’s arm, “—what I should beg you to do, is not to meet her—not to be introduced, as such—but, as soon as the lady strolls away from Roland and Mrs. Shrikesdale (which will not be long: they are so boring, those tw
o), position yourself close by her, and, looking gaily past her, as if to a far corner of the room, call out the name ‘Arabella’—keeping a resolute gaze past her; and we will see what her response is.”
St. Goar is staring at the lady in question as if transfixed; as agitated as ever Matilde has seen her dignified father in public. Yet he doesn’t allow her to interject a question; he has no time. “Be off, be off, my dear!” he whispers, “—and we will see what we will see.”
So Matilde cheerfully obeys; she’s always happiest obeying Father when the task is easily executed, and tinged with an air of mystery.
And when she stations herself close behind the lady in question (who is handsome, though slightly stout, and heavily rouged), and calls out in a light though piercing soprano voice, “Arabella!—oh, Arabella!” while making a pretense of waving gaily at someone on the far side of the room, Senator Swift’s wife responds in a manner most striking: she doesn’t turn toward Matilde—doesn’t so much as glance in Matilde’s direction—instead, she stands rigid, her expression frozen, as if a current of electricity pulsed through her body; and it’s clear to the keen-eyed observer at least that the lady in green steadfastly refuses to turn—that all of her muscular strength, and the strength of her will, goes into the act of not turning.
Then a moment later all has changed; and Matilde has swept past; and Senator Swift’s wife has the opportunity to glance around, covertly, casually, yet with an air of vague relief, to see that this “Arabella” was hardly meant for her; and that there can be no reason in this company, in the year 1916, that it might be meant for her.
11.
Suddenly, with no warning—for how could there have been a warning—on the evening of 18 December, at a dinner dance hosted by a couple whose names Millicent has temporarily misplaced—suddenly, there comes her Savior.