Insolent, thought Patrick. Allan was drinking the champagne a little too fast, but his eyes were intent.
“I haven’t seen you for nearly three weeks, Allan,” said Patrick. “I just returned from Washington two days ago.”
Allan was silent. He emptied the glass, then held it negligently in his hand. Should I congratulate him? wondered Patrick miserably. Should I even mention the automatic coupler? He was always difficult. “Our staff has missed you, since you—you decided to read law with the Interstate staff, and leave us.”
Allan thought of the last time he had been in the Peale offices. The news had just gotten about about “our new and famous young inventor, Mr. Allan Marshall, who is reading law with the staff of our Assistant Secretary of State, Mr. Peale, and his son, Senator Patrick Peale.” He had gone there to collect some forgotten notes. It had given him a disgusted and angry pleasure when the staff had received him with eager subservience, and with many respectful questions. Patrick, anxiously studying him now, saw the bleakness on his face. He knew that Allan had forgotten him, and he said, “I’m sorry. We’ll send you our certificate. …”
“Thank you,” said Allan.
Patrick sighed. “I can’t tell you how surprised and disappointed I was to hear you are going with Interstate.”
“Is that so? I can’t imagine why you were. The staff at Interstate is much larger, and more—shall we say—specialized than the Peale staff.” Allan raised his black eyebrows.
“Yes, specialized,” said Patrick reflectively. “That is just the trouble.” Allan waited, smiling slightly. Then Patrick knew that subtleties were not going to force Allan into argument. He said, “I was under the impression you were going to be a labor lawyer.” Now his voice was sharp. “To assist the people with whom you have worked, and who still work with your father. Wasn’t that your original idea?”
Allan expertly removed still another glass from a passing tray, and let Patrick wait until he had sampled it with the air of a connoisseur. He said, “I can’t afford it. You can afford to be a ‘labor’ senator, and perhaps, some years hence, when I have a fortune, too, I will be able to afford a similar luxury.”
“Allan.” Patrick became almost despairing. “I had such hopes of you. I believed in you. I never thought you would betray—” He stopped.
But Allan was not disturbed. “Betray whom?” he asked, as if in surprise.
“Those who trusted you,” said Patrick bitterly.
Allan laughed. “Trust me, Pat? Who ever trusted another man? And, coming down to it, who is worthy of trust?”
“I thought you were,” said Patrick.
“I never thought you were,” Allan rejoined. “You see, I gave you credit for more intelligence than you seem to possess. Or perhaps you are just a hypocrite. You are in politics, aren’t you?” He touched Patrick on the chest with the knuckles of his left hand. “Law is a harlot, but politics is a pimp.”
Patrick glanced hastily over his shoulder for fear someone had overheard, for Allan’s voice had not only thickened but had become forceful. Allan followed his glance. And then he saw, at a distance, the pale and troubled face of Laura deWitt gazing at them. The champagne had sharpened his vision. He could plainly see the pure radiance of her large gray eyes, the shining whiteness of her forehead, the set of her gentle lips, the vapor of her dark hair. He forgot Patrick; he forgot everyone else in the room. It is the face of the Blessed Virgin, he thought; it is the face of a saint.
She met his eyes and stood there, poised, graceful, and calm in spite of her anxiety. She did not smile. Across the great room politely clamorous with voices, shining with gems, aglow with color and with the movement of men and women, they looked at each other. Then, very slowly, her head bent as if in distress, Laura turned away.
Patrick was speaking to him again; Allan heard the voice but not the words. He had seen something infinitely beautiful, steadfast, and merciful, something of unspeakable tenderness, directed not at him but at the whole world. Now, from the valley below, above all those voices, above the new gale raving out of the sky, he heard, or thought he heard, the sound of church bells, thin and sweet, striking on his heart with nostalgia and sadness.
Cornelia’s voice soared out: “It’s midnight! Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas! The tree!”
The guests turned toward the tree. Rufus, ruddy as the sun, was approaching. Allan pressed his knuckles again on Patrick’s chest. He said, “Finis coronat opus. The end crowns the work, Pat.”
The church bells sang closer to him, insistent, calling. He could feel the throbbing of the church; the candles were burning, their tips sheathed in golden flame. There was a smell of incense, and then someone was chanting, “Gloria in Excelsis Deo! Gloria—Gloria… .” The organ was rising like a sea.
Rufus was beside them, a jeweled box of matches in his hand. “We must light the tree,” he said exuberantly. “Allan. Pat.” He struck a match, and the guests, laughing in anticipa tion, crowded about him. Patrick looked long at Allan, and said, “But you won’t forget; you’ll never really forget.”
He retreated and stood with the others. The match was glowing in Rufus’s hand, and his eyes were narrowed on Allan. “What did he say?” he muttered under his breath. What was wrong with the boy? Was he drunk?
Allan said, “Nothing at all. He said nothing at all.”
Sophia had greeted Lydia with stately aloofness. It was frightful that “that woman dares to enter this house; it is a scandal.” Sophia often repeated that to her friends, though she knew in her shrewd heart that to antagonize Jim Purcell would not be to Rufus’s advantage, even though Rufus was now far wealthier than his old enemy. However, as she said, the situation was almost untenable. In some confused way she had come to identify Laura with Lydia, and there were times when she spoke of Laura as being “that woman’s daughter.” As she grew older, she began to forget, at increasing intervals, that Cornelia was Lydia’s child, and would speak to Cornelia of “the contemptible person.” Cornelia, much attached to Lydia, had nevertheless, at an early age, come to accept the comments good-humoredly.
Sophia, who had a keen eye, in spite of the vague confusions of her old age, knew, as no one else, not even Cornelia, knew, that Rufus had not forgotten his first wife. She would watch him with pain when he greeted her so magnanimously and kindly as the wife of an old friend and a director of his company. She would see that misery stood in his eyes, and that his smile was taut with longing. She would never speak to her son of this, for that would be mortifying to Rufus, but she hated Lydia in consequence, and despised her fervently. In her mind she called Lydia “that adulteress.” Though not usually on easy terms with Estelle, she could approach an intimacy when discussing Rufus’s first wife in the privacy of her own apartments.
Estelle paused now, on the way to the small “ballroom,” to speak a word to Sophia. She was in a bad temper. Not only had that execrable Cornelia paled her own appearance, but Lydia and Laura, with their height and poise and grace, had rendered her insignificant. Sophia was still fixed by the fireside, acknowledging the presence of guests with a queenly manner, inclining her head with dignity. Estelle, fanning herself vigorously, murmured, “Mama deWitt, when will those awful people leave, the Purcells? Really, it is humiliating to have to receive them. The gowns those women wear—so without style or fashion.”
Sophia glanced about her. Lydia and Jim Purcell were evidently preparing to leave, Patrick Peale beside them. But Laura was nowhere in sight. “The girl’s a born old maid,” she muttered. “Laura. I doubt if the marriage will ever take place. Wretched creatures. They always leave after the lighting of the tree, Estelle. They have a little decency left, it would seem, for they never stay for the festivities.”
“In Philadelphia, such a thing would not be permitted,” said Estelle, with increasing ill nature. “But what can one expect of so outlandish a place as Portersville?”
This vexed Sophia. She aroused herself, and said maliciously, “The Fieldings were
always received well in Philadelphia. Their parents were old society there, and their grandparents, when, I believe, my dear, your family was tanning hides.” Her hazel eyes lit up her craggy face for an instant.
This infuriated Estelle. She said in a shaking voice, “My ancestors prepared leather for the kings of England … royal grant—commissioned. …”
Sophia was very pleased with herself. “A horse,” she intoned, “is still a horse, and a hide is still a hide.”
Estelle, with a gasp, swirled away, and Sophia smiled happily to herself. There were so few times when she could “put Estelle in her place.” It invigorated her. She had endured too much from the delicate ways of her daughter-in-law, and the latter’s assumption of haughty superiority to everyone and everything. “Who does she think she is?” she muttered aloud. “What has she ever done, personally, to put on such airs?” She was quite content now (and as if she had scored some great personal triumph) to rise and leave the room and go up to bed. As she passed the door of her grandsons’ rooms she did not even glance at it. Sometimes she forgot they existed.
“What is keeping Laura so long?” Patrick asked Jim Purcell restlessly. “I can hardly endure this house. The singer Rufus imported from New York is already tuning up.”
Purcell smiled sourly. “Laura must be havin’ quite a time persuadin’ her Uncle Rufus to permit you to become a director,” he said. “Give the girl a few more minutes.”
“I think it would have been better for Patrick to have seen Rufus, alone, in his office,” Lydia said, flushing. “It is such an ordeal to be here, under any circumstances.” Purcell patted her shoulder tolerantly. “A few more minutes, old girl,” he repeated. “I’m in a hurry, too. I promised Ruth to carry her downstairs no matter what time it is, to see the tree.” He turned to Patrick. “Saw you talkin’ to that Marshall feller. Well?”
“It was no use,” said Patrick. “I’ve tried to catch him over the last few days, but never could. We had only a minute or two. He laughed in my face when I tried to remind him of his duty.”
“‘Duty,’” repeated Purcell with reflectiveness .“Funny how a lot of folks, who won’t be hurt if they do their ‘duty,’ are always urgin’ it on others who would be hurt. Now, now, Pat, I’m not criticizin’ you.” He chuckled. “Can’t help thinkin’, though, that I’d have done exactly what that feller has done, in his place. In fact, I did, though the circumstances weren’t exactly the same.”
Rufus, in the meantime, had shut himself up in the library with Laura, his niece, and had carefully locked the door to prevent intrusion. She sat there, near the great walnut desk, her hands in her blue lap, and she was blushing with embarrassment, though her gray eyes were all earnestness. Rufus sat on the edge of the desk and regarded her with genuine love and pleasure. He had saved her life, he thought as he listened to her gentle and stammering voice. Such a charming young thing, so aristocratic, so contained. Her eyes actually radiated light. For some reason, the fact that he had helped to snatch her from death had always held him powerfully to the girl. If it were not for him, she would perhaps be dead, and not sitting here gazing at him with the affectionate pleading of a daughter, with the utter trust of a daughter.
He had listened to her for a full fifteen minutes, and had not interrupted except to ask her a fond and benign question. He had pretended to ponder everything she had said, judiciously and with affected indulgence. Slowly, moment by moment, he allowed her to gather that only her importunities were moving him, against his will. He would frown, pluck at his ruddy lip, scratch his chin, sigh, look meditative. He would play with his watch chain, simulating a little distress. He could almost hear her innocent thoughts: I think I am persuading him, dear Uncle Rufus!
She looks like Lydia; she might have been Lydia at her age, Rufus said to himself, and the old pain twisted in him. I could never deny Lydia anything. Even if this matter of the young Peale fellow weren’t exactly what I wish, I’d have a hard time refusing Laura.
“Patrick said he could contribute so much,” Laura was saying, twisting her handkerchief in her hands. She smiled at Rufus anxiously. “Am I presuming, Uncle Rufus?”
“You could never ‘presume’ with me, my love,” he answered. He reached out and stroked the fine dark hair which always seemed to float in spite of anchoring pins. His hand was very tender. It dropped to her chin, and lifted it, and he bent and kissed her cheek which had been touched with the softest and sweetest powder—Lydia’s own scent. Rufus’s hand slipped away, and he stared at her, overcome with a strange pain and jealousy. She is, in every way, my own child. She belongs to me.
He took her hands and pulled her gently to her feet, then held her in his arms. She clung to him, and put her head on his shoulder. “There, there, my dear,” he said. “Don’t worry your little mind. If your boy is actually serious, and it will make you happy, let him come to see me next week, before I leave for New York.” He held her off from him and studied her with pride. “Of course, I’ll have to call a board meeting, and nothing can be done, really, until after he marries you in June.” He added, again with jealousy, “You love him very much, don’t you, my darling?”
Laura was very astute, and she smiled at Rufus with a tenderness equal to his. “But you, Uncle Rufus, will always be first with me.”
Rufus swelled with triumph. Purcell had not been able to replace her uncle in her mind, though she was fond of him. Rufus kissed the girl again. “Of course,” he said. “You are always my girl, and you always will be. So, run along now. I must get back to my guests.”
Laura went joyfully to Lydia and Patrick and Purcell, gave them the news in a voice quivering with delight, and then they all prepared to leave as inconspicuously as possible. Purcell alone was thoughtful. He knew of Rufus’s attachment to Laura, but that would not be enough to interfere with Red Rufe’s business. There was something else. H’m, thought Purcell, and he began to smile to himself. The future appeared to promise considerable entertainment.
They found Estelle bubbling with some friends, her saccharine smile pulled taughtly over her small and greedy teeth. She fanned, and she preened, and in every affected gesture there was revealed her enormous contentment with herself, and her vanity. The smile grew slightly congealed as the Purcell group approached her. Then, with a catch of her breath, and a flutter, she put her hand on Patrick’s arm. “Dear Patrick,” she said, “I cannot tell you how much I applauded your speech in the Senate recently! I understood! I agreed! It was marvelous! And you are working so hard for labor. …”
A passing servant accidentally brushed her arm with a tray, and she said viciously, “How careless of you, George! You have not done well tonight; I must speak to Mr. deWitt about you.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” murmured the young man, whose thin face was white with exhaustion. He had been working steadily since six that morning, in preparation for the party, and his hands were tremulous. Before Patrick could speak, and before he could control his indignation enough to speak, Estelle was trilling again: “Servants are so impossible! So stupid! And so ungrateful, aren’t they?”
Patrick’s face became stern; Jim Purcell took his arm and led him away. “That woman!” muttered the young man. “The deWitts. …”
Purcell laughed. “Oh, old Rufe isn’t so bad these past few years. D’you know, I think he’s mellowed. That’s what money can do for a man: make him kinder to his fellow man.”
Estelle, who had tactfully convinced the society of Portersville that she, a Norwich, born and bred in Philadelphia, knew all that it was possible to know about culture, skillfully herded her guests into the small ballroom. She had thought it shameful that the room was not large enough for more than four musicians. “It gives such an air of poverty,” she had told Rufus with petulance. The musicians were grouped at the end of the room, near the piano, and their expressions conveyed their excitement that they were not only to play for the later dancing but were to accompany the famous tenor Giovanni Monetti. They peeped at the great
man, slender and small in his impeccable evening dress, and they almost groveled at his glances of rage at the slowly gathering audience. He stared furiously at his watch; his mighty chest, so out of proportion to the rest of his figure, swelled out grotesquely. He was insulted. When he appeared on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House, he received ovations before he could sing a single note. The guests, seating themselves on small gilt chairs, and chirping and laughing, hardly gave him a look. Peasants! Santa Maria!
The guests were now seated on all the gilt chairs available, and the overflow of gentlemen were standing against the wall. Monetti surveyed his hostess; no charm, no grace, no cosmopolitanism. Then his gaze wandered, and stopped.
That young man there, leaning against the wall, his head bent a little, with the lady of the fiery red hair beside him—a most extraordinary face, that young man’s. An Italiano? No, it was too cold, too fixed. Yet, it had an anguish—definitely an anguish. It was a face one did not forget; it was a face of passion. Monetti decided to sing to it, to stir it out of its ice, to melt and move it. The first song would decide if he, Monetti, was a fool.
The murmur, laughter and flutterings in the room continued. Ladies leaned across gentlemen and twittered. Their powder and their scent choked the singer. He coughed loudly; he moved deliberately from his place, walked back and forth, and exhibited temper. This finally caught the attention of the guests, and at a dignified gesture of Estelle’s they sank into silence. Monetti waited impressively, his leaping eye cowing each it touched.