Never Victorious, Never Defeated

  The boys were bouncing about in their mother’s arms, shrieking meaninglessly, glaring with the distended eyes of spoiled and unruly children. “We waited, we waited!” screamed Jon, and he struck his mother’s bare shoulder with a clenched fist. “You promised, you promised!” yelled his younger brother.

  Rufus was silent. These were the sons he had passionately desired, these rather undersized little fellows, too dainty, too effeminate, too like their mother with their thin brown hair, their pointed faces, their small noses and stubborn mouths. Had he had so little vitality, then, that he could not produce a boy in Cornelia’s mold? Estelle called her sons “patrician.” Whenever she simpered so, Rufus would think of the antic vitality of his father, the strength of his mother, the stern if muted power of his brother, the blaze which was his daughter.

  “What did your mother promise, boys?” he asked, and his voice was harsh and loud.

  “A Christmas story, a Christmas song, to put them to sleep,” replied Estelle yearningly.

  “For God’s sake!” shouted Rufus. “Why didn’t you get in here before, then, Estelle? Why wait until our guests arrive? ‘Put them to sleep?’ What imbecility.”

  The boys feared their father, even in the presence of their mother, and they subsided, squatting on their beds. They began to snivel. They turned their eyes huntingly, from side to side, and they finally rested on Cornelia, who had advanced to the beds. She smiled at them affectionately, shook her fist. “And here’s big sister just waiting to pound hell out of you, if you make a single sound,” she said. She reached out and pushed Jon’s head, and then Norman’s. They held, for Cornelia, mingled malice and dislike. But she was an excellent and romping playmate. “I’ll break every one of your presents with my own hands, if you don’t behave,” she threatened, and lifted Norman and threw him down among his pillows.

  “Throw me, throw me!” shrilled the older boy, bounding excitedly. Cornelia obliged, her big white arms like marble. The two children screamed with joy. Estelle watched this with jealous affront.

  Rufus turned to Miss Schultz and smiled kindly, “You seem very tired, my dear. Go to your own rooms at once, and a tray will be sent up to you.”

  “But the boys!” cried Estelle. “They cannot be left alone, awake.”

  “And who will hurt them in this house? Don’t be a fool, Estelle.”

  “But they’ve never been left alone, until they slept.”

  “They are beginning, tonight. Go, Miss Schultz.” Rufus’s face had become very dark with congested blood.

  It was curious that whenever her husband rebuked or reprimanded her, Estelle’s eyes turned automatically to Cornelia, or if Cornelia was absent, her thoughts so turned. Cornelia was quite accustomed to that gleam of pure malignance, and it amused her. She left the room, after a gay wave at the reconciled boys, and Rufus and Estelle followed her, Rufus silent, Estelle’s head bent in meek and suffering submission. And so it was that Allan Marshall, the first and only guest waiting below, saw Cornelia descending the curving stairway alone, like a pillar of fire and smoke in the form of a woman.

  Rufus and Estelle had not yet reached the top of the stairs. Cornelia stopped, halfway down, and Allan looked up at her. All at once there flashed between them something intensely powerful and magnetic, something of profound recognition. Cornelia seemed struck into immobilization, and her lips parted. Involuntarily, Allan came to the foot of the stairway, and his right hand lifted toward her. Then, slow step by step, she moved down to him, her eyes fixed on his, like one responding to a mesmerist.

  She was on the last step when she gave him her hand, and he assisted her down, and they stood there in that silence, looking at each other. Their hands did not part until Rufus and Estelle descended.

  What a strange person, Estelle thought. Really not a gentleman, though I cannot just put my finger on the difference. Perhaps it is because his evening clothes are a trifle too fashionable, a trifle too well-tailored. There is such a peculiar air about him. She simpered at Allan as she graciously acknowledged the introduction. “Mr. deWitt has told me so much about you, Mr. Marshall. Such a genius. You are quite famous, aren’t you? An inventor!” She managed to give the word an intonation of superiority and aristocratic condescension.

  Rufus patted Allan’s shoulder heartily. “More than that, one of the finest young lawyers in the country, and we’ll be proud to have him on our staff.” He beamed at the young man proudly.

  “Are you the first here, Mr. Marshall?” asked Estelle sweetly, conveying her opinion that a guest who came on time, and was the first to arrive, was not entirely acceptable in polite society. Allan’s black eyes hardened upon her. “I once heard that punctuality is the courtesy of kings,” he replied quietly.

  Estelle fluttered her fan before her lips. “Really?” she murmured vaguely. She was not offended. Her mind could not remain upon others for more than an instant or two, and her conviction of her importance made her invulnerable to any rudeness. She did notice that Rufus was smiling slightly, and Cornelia broadly.

  Allan had learned the trick of keeping the fingers of his right hand always slightly bent, so that the mutilated middle finger was not obvious. As he talked with Rufus, he was all surety. The interior of the house, though it had aroused his deep admiration and pleasure, had not overwhelmed him. He felt that he had come home, and that this house belonged to him, and that some day he would take full possession. He stood answering Rufus’s fond and paternal questions about his progress in the Peale offices in a voice without strain or embarrassment. Cornelia, standing near her father, had become grave again, and she listened intently. Her calloused young heart was beating with unusual speed, and she felt a prickling dampness along her hairline and in the palms of her hands.

  As Allan glanced at her, and smiled a little, her heart beat even faster, and a soft humidity came over her eyes, and the lusty face melted into a strange tenderness and excitement. She regarded him breathlessly, and she said to herself: He is splendid. He is fierce. He is strong. He is ruthless. He is like me. Why, I have been waiting for him all my life.

  Now, what’s wrong with the girl? Rufus thought. He had been telling Allan a very good joke, and Allan was laughing. Cornelia, who always appreciated her father’s anecdotes, had not responded at all. She was a little pale, and her mouth stood apart foolishly. That damned brandy, Rufus told himself with irritation. He took Cornelia’s arm and said loudly. “This is only an informal party, Allan. Nothing grand. We are having hardly ninety guests; just old friends who’ll like to meet you. Shall we go into the living room?”

  “The main drawing room, Rufus,” said Estelle with a quick frown, and then a smile. She took Allan’s arm; it was necessary for her to charm everyone, and she peeped up at him. “Dear Mr. deWitt is so sentimental about Christmas at home. However, we shall be in New York for New Year’s.”

  Rufus, a few steps ahead with his daughter, glanced back. “And by the way, Allan, we shall expect you there, also.” His decision, instantaneous, had been prompted by his wife’s lilting attempt to patronize the younger man.

  Sophia, “the great gray hag,” as Allan had always called her to himself, was already waiting by the bounding fire in the beautiful living room. She sat there, grim, stiff, and offended. “I have been here half an hour, Rufus,” she said in her abrasive voice.

  Cornelia went to her quickly and kissed her cheek, and immediately the livid face softened. “Why are you always so prompt, Granny?” she teased. “No one is here yet but Mr. Marshall, of whom Papa has told you so much.”

  “Indeed,” said Sophia haughtily. She smoothed her rich black lap with wrinkled hands heavy with gems. She studied Allan, without offering him any further greeting. A foreigner. She could always tell these foreigners, with their sharp dark faces, penetrating eyes, and hard mouths. Marshall. Of course, when they gained a little success, they changed their names. She added, “I hope you will enjoy yourself, young man.”

  Allan bowed respectfully and said, ?
??I expect to, Mrs. deWitt.” Sophia looked more keenly at him. Rufus had been discreet in his accounts of Allan to his wife and mother. A young inventor, a rising young lawyer, who was about to join the legal staff of the railroad. This was a ticklish moment for Rufus. His mother rarely, if ever, forgot a face. Sophia’s lofty expression was already becoming thoughtful. She played with the subdued necklace of pearls and jet that encircled her strong if wizened throat. “Haven’t I met you somewhere before, Mr.—Marshall? You seem very familiar.”

  Only in your garden, you old witch, thought Allan. He bowed again, with a properly deferential smile of regret. “I am afraid not, Mrs. deWitt,” he murmured. “Or, at least, not that I recall.”

  “Of course, I don’t go to Philadelphia often,” said Sophia, pleased with him in spite of herself. There was something familiar, yes, about this young whippersnapper. Then she thought suddenly of Aaron. The look in the eyes, the sudden mobility of the mouth, the bow which had a touch of the ironic in it—Aaron. “You remind me of my dear departed husband, young sir,” she said, and her hoarse voice was actually quavering. “Not that you resemble him in the least physically. I think, perhaps, it is character.”

  Rufus was surprised. “I thought so, too,” he said, and glanced at Allan with real affection. “A gay old party, my father, but full of steel. Perhaps gayer than you, my boy. There is something a little too somber about you.” He patted Allan’s shoulder.

  To some extent, Sophia was still overawed by the name and position of her daughter-in-law. But this usually expressed itself by irascibility. “Isn’t that gown a little too young for you, my dear Estelle?” she asked. “Light mauve velvet?”

  “I am not very old,” responded Estelle coldly. “And speaking of age, don’t you think, Mother deWitt, that Cornelia’s gown is too extreme for a young girl?”

  Sophia chuckled in a way that Estelle considered very common. The old woman took Cornelia’s hand, held her off, studied her. “Extreme? No. Why should she hide shoulders and arms like these? Ah, me, she looks exactly as I did at her age. If she were a man she would be the image of her father at twenty. By the way, have you been drinking, child?” She gave Cornelia a haggard grin.

  Estelle’s eyes began to widen with horror, but at that moment many guests arrived, and Rufus thankfully went to the threshold of the room to meet them, firmly grasping his wife’s arm. Cornelia, standing beside her grandmother, winked at Allan. Sophia, who in her old age was given to even more bluntness than in her youth, said, “I am glad to see eligible young Americans here again, Mr. Marshall. Did you ever meet that marquis? A dreadful fortune hunter. I despised him, and was very happy when our Cornelia gave him the mitten.”

  Cornelia shrieked with laughter. Her face was bright with excitement, and her eyes turned to Allan, sparkling, malicious, yet oddly shy. She stood perfectly still, but again, as he had noticed before, she gave the effect of iridescence, of constant and unrestrained vibration.

  The guests were pouring into the room, elegant, glittering, talking animatedly, and accompanied by their host and hostess. The ladies swirled over the fine old rugs, the gentlemen at their sides. Among them were Patrick Peale, Jim Purcell, Lydia, and Laura. Allan turned to them politely. He met the grave eyes of Patrick in the manner of a stranger waiting for an introduction. If Jim Purcell regarded him with a muddy blank stare, Allan was not too disturbed. He knew the older man slightly, for the latter had, once or twice, come into the Peale offices late at night. He recognized Lydia and Laura from the photographs he had seen of them in the local and Philadelphia and New York newspapers. He immediately dismissed them as pale and uninteresting women, for all their height and grace. Cornelia dwarfed and extinguished all other women, no matter how jeweled or gowned they were, or how pretty.

  More guests were arriving, and Rufus and Estelle again moved away, leaving introductions to Sophia and Cornelia. Purcell grunted, shook hands briefly with Allan. Patrick murmured, “We have met,” and retreated. Allan smiled to himself disdainfully. He had not missed Patrick’s reproachful intonation. I love these lovers of mankind, he thought. They’ll do anything for the “common man” except meet him on equal ground. He feels, this Peale, that I have “betrayed” something, or at least he believes he feels it. But the truth is that he is hurt because he has been forced to accept me socially.

  Cornelia was talking above the voices of the other guests: “We have a wonderful surprise tonight. The great Metropolitan tenor, Giovanni Monetti, is going to sing for us. He arrived this morning, and immediately hid himself in his rooms, primping, no doubt, and doing all the other things tenors do.”

  Cornelia twinkled on her guests. The marquis had jilted her! They were peeping at her with furtiveness, and she almost burst out laughing. Some of the ladies were of her own age; she had played with them as a child. They wore smug expressions which did not annoy, but only amused, Cornelia. She also saw that they were much attracted to Allan and spared him some discreet glances of interest. When he spoke to them, his voice held them, and quite a number of young eyes melted. Cornelia was pleased.

  More guests were pouring in, and the room, warm and filled with lamplight and firelight, became even warmer and weighted with scent. Fans fluttered; white arms flashed; white necks arched flirtatiously; jewels shone and dazzled. The gentlemen moved about in seal-like black, bowing, laughing decorously, complimenting, greeting. Sophia sat rigidly by the fire and looked only at her granddaughter.

  The men were curious about this stranger. They had heard of him from Rufus, who had been very careful. They could not “place” him. They could not remember whether Rufus had told them he had come from Philadelphia or New York or Boston. His accent was definitely not Philadelphian, nor did it have a New York intonation. There was something “odd” about it. Boston, no doubt, thought one of the gentlemen. But where had he heard that particular inflection in Boston? Irish! Only a faint flavor, but unmistakably Irish. The gentlemen said to Allan, “You are of Irish extraction, I believe, sir? I have friends. … You must pardon me. …”

  Allan inclined his head. The gentleman wandered away, reflective. The Irish were invading the sacred groves of Boston these days. Fine old houses were filled with lamentations. But the Irish, a few, were becoming quite wealthy. Not socially acceptable, of course, though some of them were approaching the periphery with their charities to approved causes.

  Allan was enjoying himself. He was very cautious. He generalized. He avoided answering tentative questions about his origins with the utmost deftness. When he did not catch a reference, he did not improvise. There was too much danger in that. They spoke of music, and he replied to them in matching words, for his vocabulary was tremendous, the result of his enormous reading. Within less than ten minutes, and in spite of his “strangeness,” he had attracted much approval from both sexes. He dexterously evaded the subject of politics, on which some of the men became quietly vehement And he listened; everlastingly, he listened. In the background, Lydia, and Laura watched him uncertainly; Purcell grunted and said nothing; and Patrick, a little white about the lips, was silent.

  Delightful strains were issuing from the smaller drawing room beyond. Servants were beginning to circle with silver trays of champagne. Allan sipped at his glass. Cornelia was suddenly beside him, full of elation, her eyes dancing with mockery as she looked at him. As she began to speak, he felt a touch on his arm. He turned to see Patrick Peale. Patrick bowed to Cornelia, and her broad smile disappeared in an expression of unpleasantness. “Forgive me, Cornelia,” said Patrick. He glanced at Allan.

  “Could I have a word with you, please? Just for a moment?”

  31

  “Why?” asked Cornelia. She put her glass to her lips, and over it her stare was bold and fixed. This puny creature with his big solemn eyes! This meager man with whom she had thought herself in love even as late as the past summer! Her humiliation thickened her throat; she wound her arm through Allan’s and repeated, “Why?”

  Patrick was extreme
ly distressed. “I’m sorry, Cornelia. It is only a matter of business.” He paused and regarded the girl closely. Her cheeks were crimson; had she drunk too much champagne? She had never stared at him before with this particular dislike. Since his engagement to Laura she had shown him an offhanded and indifferent affection. He began to color. Cornelia smiled, and tightened her hand on Allan’s arm.

  “Business?” she repeated. Her voice was more than a little slurred. “Mr. Marshall was about to dance with me, and it is Christmas Eve. No time for business.” She turned to Allan. “You do dance, don’t you?”

  Allan had been watching the two closely. He had nothing to fear, now. If Patrick was embarrassed, if he believed that Cornelia still loved him, the more fool he. Allan put his hand over the hand on his arm, and looking at Patrick he replied to the girl: “Yes.” He continued with more deliberation: “Yes, I do dance. I have taken daily lessons for over three weeks. I can waltz very well.”

  Cornelia threw back her head and bellowed mirthfully. Then her face changed, became almost ugly. She tilted her glass toward Patrick, and said, “I’ll spare Allan for a moment. But, Pat, if I were you I wouldn’t mention Allan’s origins to anyone.”

  “I don’t understand,” Patrick answered, his color deepening.

  “Oh, yes you do. I saw the wrinkle in your fragile nose tonight, when you saw him here. Papa and I won’t like it in the least if you try to disparage Allan.”

  Patrick looked quickly at Allan. But Allan displayed nothing but pleasure. Cornelia was patting his arm; some of the champagne had spilled over her gray velvet dress. “Go on, Allan, let the little boy tell you his story.” She tossed her head and went off, followed by many glances of admiration.

  Patrick regarded the floor for a moment, and then in a low voice he said, “In the far corner. Near the Christmas tree. It isn’t lighted yet, and no one is near it.” Allan shrugged, and the two young men, murmuring regrets to those they passed, reached the comparatively secluded spot where a giant spruce, brilliantly decorated, candles still unlighted, waited for the stroke of twelve. Allan stood with his back to the tree, and Patrick stopped before him. “Well?” said Allan. He fumbled for his cigarette case automatically; then, noticing that no other man was smoking, it came to him that it would be improper among the ladies. He dropped his hand. A servant came by with another tray of champagne, and Allan reached out and captured a glass. He put it to his mouth.