“Well, anyway, I picked out the two ringleaders of the boys who were goin’ to show Steve what the world was really like. So I kicked hell out of the two brawny lads, and laid down the law to ’em, and they left Steve alone.” He smoothed Lydia’s hair, then gently kissed her cold shocked face. “Why, old girl,” he said with uncouth tenderness, “in some ways you’re like Steve.”
Lydia’s cheeks began to run with slow tears. “His friends,” she said. “That Joseph Baynes and Tom Orville. They never came once, after all he has done for them.”
“That’s natural,” said Purcell mildly. “What did you expect? After all, he helped them, didn’t he? Think they can forgive him for that?”
“But the Baynes boy came,” said Lydia. “A dark, ungenerous-looking boy, with common features. He just sat with Stephen, and I don’t think they spoke half a dozen words. I don’t think Stephen was deceived this time; I don’t think he thought Joseph Baynes sent his son. But he was comforted, just the same. It’s strange that the most unlikely seeming people, the ones you’d never expect to show compassion, are the people for a crisis; while the soft-spoken ones, the ones with ‘ideals’ about friendship and humanity, are the first to desert a man who’s stricken.”
“Well, of course,” said Purcell indulgently. “That’s very simple. Hypocrites, that’s all. They know they’re just as terrible as anyone else, and just as greedy and rapacious, but they kind of think it will elevate them in the eyes of other people by puttin’ on a fine show.”
“I think I feel a little ill,” said Lydia.
Purcell kissed her again. “Come on, now, that’s not like my girl. Not my girl who’s goin’ to stand up to Red Rufe very soon and tell him right out to his face what she thinks of him. Come on; give me a smile. Well, dreary sort of smile. Before we go on with this talk, you tell me why you love me. I’m nothin’ to look at, no beauty.”
Lydia laughed feebly. “I think I always loved you, even when I was a child.” She put her hand to his misshapen cheek and love pulsed through her palm. He turned his head and kissed it, slowly and deeply. “I always knew what you were; yes, always, Jim.” Her pretty teeth glittered in the moonlight and her face softened with poignant emotion.
“That’s wonderful,” said Purcell, grinning. “Nice to know somebody appreciates my sturdy qualities, me havin’ kept them hidden all this time, even from myself. But I want to know something, Lydia. How’s Red Rufe treatin’ Steve these days?”
Lydia became thoughtful. “I believe all you’ve ever told me about Stephen and Rufus, Jim. And so I can’t understand. Nobody can be kinder than Rufus is to his brother. He sits with him for hours, at night, and sometimes he’s even made Stephen laugh. His solicitude is wonderful.”
Purcell frowned, and he glanced at Lydia with sharp alarm. He said, “You know, sometimes I’m not very bright. Thought you’d have caught on, old girl. Knew things by intuition, or something. Made a mistake. You listen to me: I told Rufe that he must never let Steve know that he’s the boy whose knife is in him, that he’s plotted the whole thing, with a little side-help from his friends here and in New York and Philadelphia. Knew Steve couldn’t be saved; but I wanted him to die as peaceful as possible, when the time came. If he got to know that it was all Rufe, Rufe with the smiles and winks and pats, Rufe he’s trusted all these years, Steve would go out of his mind.”
Purcell got up, and gave Lydia his hand. “A man always runs true to form. Almost always. Conscience? That’s somethin’ Rufe wasn’t born with. Like bein’ born blind. He can’t help it.” He brushed mold and leaves from Lydia’s cloak, then took her in his arms very gently. “Don’t you mind, now. I’m not a man with a conscience, either. I never tried to fool you, old girl. You know all about me. It’s time to go.”
Sophia said to Lydia irritably, watching her with fierce hazel eyes, “It’s very tiresome. Stephen meets every crisis in his life by getting ill. I’m sure I don’t know all the details, but Stephen is certainly a very poor-spirited man because he can’t face the fact that the road had to reduce the men’s wages. And surely, knowing how the strikers acted, and how they hate him and ridicule him, for doing simply what he had to do, he shouldn’t have been so overcome. Every time he read the newspapers, and saw how the strike had to be put down with the militia and troops, and how the engineers and firemen and the conductors and such, tried to destroy our property, Stephen went to pieces. The doctor had to be called in the night, sometimes. It upsets the household dreadfully. Casts a pall over it, and that isn’t good for the girls.” Sophia’s hard and raddled face twisted. “Rufus suffers too; he feels too deeply, and is too sympathetic. I don’t know where he gets his patience from—having the burden of everything on his shoulders while Stephen lies in bed looking like a corpse and trying to escape everything by being ill.”
The two women were having afternoon tea together, delicate China tea in frail cups. The drawing-room fire was lighted, and the amber light chased early evening shadows over the walls and the ceiling. Lydia dropped her hands in her brown-velvet lap, and the nails entered her palms. But she said calmly, “Stephen is returning to the office on Monday. You must remember, Mother deWitt, that the doctor said Stephen had suffered a slight stroke, or a heart attack. He can’t help responding to stress.”
“When Alice died,” Sophia began, tossing her gray head.
Lydia stood up abruptly. She tried to control herself, but became very white. “You must not talk about my sister,” she said in an unsteady voice.
Sophia stared, started to speak. Then she was struck by the tense and formidable expression on Lydia’s face. She threw up her hands as if in despair. She said finally, “What is wrong with everyone in this house? Mad, absolutely mad. A person can’t say anything! When I try to sympathize with Rufus, and deplore Stephen’s weakness, he stops me and looks furious.”
Lydia tried to soften her voice. “Mother, it is just that you don’t understand everything. Neither do I.” In spite of all that she knew, she felt pity for this implacable old woman in her black silk and fringes and gold chains and brooches and glittering rings. She sat down again and took up her cup and sipped at it. “Forgive me if I was too brusque. We have all been under a great strain. You must remember that Stephen almost died once or twice. But he is better now, almost well. We must try to forget how wretched things have been.”
Sophia was a little mollified, though she tossed her head again with an injured air. “Yes, things have been ‘wretched,’ as you say, Lydia. And you haven’t helped them by going about with a very grim face. Sometimes your eyes actually flash—quite murderously. There are times when I feel that you actually—actually!—blame poor Rufus for it all.” She watched Lydia cunningly, but Lydia remained impassive.
“You imagined it,” said Lydia listlessly. “I—I have just hated the situation. I—I’m not blaming Rufus, if that is what you fear.”
“The situation isn’t Rufus’s fault,” said Sophia with umbrage.
Lydia was silent. She was well aware that Sophia had more than a slight knowledge of Rufus’s plans and plottings, and her heart began to beat sickeningly with rage and disgust. But she slowly ate a piece of seedcake. She said, “I grant you everything. We can do nothing; we are only women. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see how the girls are behaving themselves at tea in their rooms.”
She stood up, and Sophia gazed at her bleakly. Even after all these years she still resented Lydia’s breeding and poise, the effortless grace of her head, her manner. The brown velvet of her dress was draped most simply, without fringes or shining buttons, and the bodice outlined her slender figure without artifice. She watched Lydia leave the room and muttered under her breath. No puffs or rolls or elaborate twistings marked Lydia’s hair; it was smoothed back from her pale, quiet face into a thick knot at the nape of her neck. Not a morsel of style, thought Sophia, pouring another cup of tea for herself.
Lydia went slowly up the winding stairway, her gown flowing behind her. The afternoon was darkening st
eadily, this first day of October, and the rain rushed at the windows in wild gusts. Lydia paused at a window on the second floor and glanced out at the somber mountains, purplish mist against a gaseous sky. She could see the terraced gardens below, the grass still almost unnaturally green, the faded and lonely trees.
Lydia hesitated at Stephen’s door, knocked softly, then entered. Stephen was asleep. He lay on his bed like a dead man, his gray face turned to the window. Firelight shivered over his folded hands and ashen hair. Lydia waited, but he did not move, and so she closed the door softly again, a savage ache in her breast.
The children were alone. Their governess was a frail little lady, and Lydia had insisted that during this “tea-hour” she should rest in her own room. Lydia found this arrangement pleasing, for then she could speak to Cornelia and Laura as she wished. When she entered now Cornelia squealed delightedly, flung herself into her mother’s arms and kissed her with exuberance. Lydia stroked the fiery curls fondly, touched the brilliant cheek with a tender finger. She knew all about this eleven-year-old daughter of hers, but that did not decrease her love. Lydia believed that love had a powerful, gentling influence even upon those natively barbarous.
Laura had arisen when her aunt had entered, and waited near the table drawn up near the hearth. She smiled as Lydia came toward her, and accepted Lydia’s kiss without a word. Sophia had remarked, on more than one occasion, and with malice, that “Lydia seems singularly uninterested in her own sister’s child. A little unnatural.” But Lydia and Laura understood each other without emotional displays, and a strange, silent, but eloquent love had grown between them. They were alike, and they were aware of it, and communicated only by a glance of an eye, or a faint gesture.
Lydia sat down at the table on a chair which Cornelia, with much briskness and considerable emphatic awkwardness, drew up for her. Everything that Cornelia did was done with emphasis, energy, and physical strength. This impressed people with her great “simplicity.” But Lydia knew that the seemingly simple were not simple at all.
“What have you girls been doing all day?” asked Lydia. Cornelia beamed at her mother. “Miss Trenton’s been telling us all about the telephone,” she said. “Mama, shall we have a telephone? Miss Trenton says that one of these days we’ll all be talking to each other, way across the country, and maybe across the oceans, too! Won’t that be wonderful?”
“I can’t see why,” replied Lydia with a smile. “I think we all talk too much as it is. Rather awful to think that we might be able, some day, to shout across continents and seas, breaking up the silences which, so far, are safe from our voices.” Cornelia frowned, somewhat puzzled. “But Miss Trenton says if we can ‘span’ the sea and the countries and talk to each other, it will make the world smaller and then we’ll understand each other and there won’t be any more wars'. And she says that someday we’ll have big air-machines, flying over everything, flying all around the world, carrying goods to everybody that needs ’em, and we won’t be strange to each other any more, and will love each other, and we won’t be fighting.” Cornelia smiled at her mother wistfully, and Lydia suppressed her smile at this hypocritical ingenuousness. Then she was annoyed. “Miss Trenton is a dear little soul,” she said in her most cool and practical voice. “But I’m afraid she is an idealist. She is wrong, of course. We’ll just be able to murder each other more quickly and efficiently. You remember the story of dynamite, Cornelia. That was supposed to make wars so horrible that no nation would dare attack another nation. The musket was supposed to do that, too, and the cannon. And the crossbow before them. No doubt the Greeks thought their fireballs, thrown from ship to ship, would bring peace to the world. But nothing ever brings it. Because man is a beast, you see.”
Cornelia’s bright and eloquent face took on an expression of acute distress. This, too, was artifice, and was intended to inspire compassion in the adult Lydia for an innocent child who was being disillusioned. Lydia laughed shortly. “Don’t pretend with me, darling,” she said. “You are a little brute, yourself.”
Cornelia, who had an intense sense of humor, broke out into loud and husky laughter. She hugged her mother with violence. “Mama, you are so mean! You know people expect you not to be yourself. Why, you wouldn’t dare!”
“That is true; not many people ‘dare,’” agreed Lydia. “It is very wearing, and even dangerous, at times, to be honest.”
“Well, I like people to like me,” replied Cornelia. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Some of us are a little more discriminating.” But Lydia smiled sadly.
Cornelia thumped herself down at her mother’s feet, and began to smooth the velvet of Lydia’s dress. She could be herself with her mother, and this was occasionally relieving. “If people like you, you can get what you want out of them,” she said. The firelight flickered over her beautiful round face, which was full of laughter. Lydia put her hand compassionately on the head at her knee, and turned to Laura. “What do you think, my dear?” she asked.
Laura considered meditatively. Then she said in her low sweet voice, “I don’t care, very much, if people like me or not. I just don’t want them ‘touching’ me with anything. Unless I like them a great deal.”
Cornelia was becoming restless, as she always did when she was no longer the center of attention. She caught her mother’s arm to attract her notice. “Mama, why can’t we have a tennis court? It’s all the rage. Everybody has a tennis court. Tennis is so fashionable.”
“You know why, dear. The grounds all slope. And I don’t think Uncle Stephen ever takes any interest in tennis.”
Cornelia studied her mother slyly. She began to hum hoarsely under her breath, a habit she had when she was indulging in secret and not very charitable thoughts. Then she jumped to her feet and exclaimed, “Let’s play dominoes!” She made a clatter with the tea things, dumping them untidily on another table, and keeping up a loud and aimless conversation as she laid out the dominoes. Lydia watched her intently.
She played the game with the children; she played mechanically, for she was full of her own miseries and despairs. Where would they all be, a year from now? There were great boulders and chasms and gloomy, terrifying vistas before her, and thunders of violence. She, herself, could endure it all. What of Laura? Lydia looked at that small and reflective face bent over the dominoes. A stream of dark hair like a vapor fell over the child’s pale cheek. Lydia saw the deep indentations about the full gray eyes: the stigmata of the sensitive and quietly impassioned.
“Why are you sighing, Mama?” asked Cornelia curiously.
“It is a very depressing day,” replied Lydia.
When she went down to the drawing room later, Rufus was already there. He stood up when she entered, but he did not speak. Lydia sat down, conscious of her husband’s concentrated regard. She kept herself very still, and said tranquilly, “The weather is bad, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he answered, “it is.” In spite of Lydia’s efforts she could not refrain from glancing at him. He appeared drained and harassed, and he was strumming his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Something is tormenting him,” she thought with sudden pity. “Something is driving him.”
Rufus said, “I’ve just been up to see Steve. I believe he is coming down to dinner tonight. I’m very glad. There is—business—to do next week, and we need him.” He shook his head. “Everything is very bad. Tens of thousands of dollars in damage to our property. The—rascals—burned up considerable in the yards. We’re just beginning to discover the extent of the destruction.”
Lydia was silent. Rufus did not speak again. He only sat there, staring at the fire and strumming. Moment by moment he became more absorbed in his thoughts, and they evidently did not please or comfort him. He is not thinking of the destruction and the strike, Lydia reflected. He is thinking of Stephen, and me. He hates us both now, and the hatred is not giving him pleasure. It is giving him pain.
Sophia came in then, sighing and complaining. She kissed her son a
nd said, “My poor Rufus, how ill you look!”
22
“I should like to see the yards,” said Stephen to his brother. His voice was very weak since his sudden illness, and more faltering than ever. Though the carriage was snug, and a thick fur had been thrown over his knees, a steady shivering ran over his emaciated body. Rufus had wrapped him in mufflers and coats; it was like draping a skeleton, he thought, without ridicule but only with a gloomy pity. It was stupid to feel pity for a poor fool like Stephen, who was better out of what had eaten away his life. But there it was. Rufus smiled at his brother easily. “It won’t make you happy,” he said. “Why not wait until you’re stronger? This is your first day. And we’re beginning to clean up the mess.”
The rain had not stopped for five days; it lashed the roof of the carriage, shot long needles like quicksilver over the windows. The carriage swayed in the wind, and the restive horses ran like satin with water. “I should still like to see the yards,” said Stephen; his cheeks had fallen in, his face had dwindled. His large gray mustache looked absurd in that diminished face. Yet it added to the pathos of his appearance. He was only forty-three; he seemed sixty or more.
“Very well,” said Rufus cheerily, as he climbed like a youth into the carriage. But he was depressed. “Do it quick,” Purcell had warned him. He was conscious of being hurried, not only by Purcell, but by this dying man beside him. He had no doubt that Stephen was dying. Lydia might have been incredulous had she known her husband’s thoughts as the carriage began to roll gingerly down the hill, the wind screaming about it. I’ll always take care of Laura, Rufus said to himself. A sweet child; I love her like my own. Somehow, I must make Steve understand that, at the last.
Stephen had no strength for speech during the long journey toward Portersville. Rufus had told him carelessly that the board of directors were meeting that morning but that it was about some “routine matter.” What more can they do, than what they have done? Stephen thought. He was as cold as death; his muffled hands were icy. They’ll probably be jubilant. But someway, I can alleviate what they have done. When I am a little stronger I’ll pledge some more of my stock for the men. The stock is rising; there will be dividends; I’ll soon be able to redeem it. He glanced timorously at Rufus, who was gazing at the drowned mountain road and the dismal scene beyond it. The mountains surrounded them, somber, drenched, and cold. Rufus, commented Stephen silently, seemed exhausted. He had much less color; the flesh about his mouth kept twitching. Stephen murmured, “It has been hard on you, Rufus. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you stood by me.”