“Well, well,” said Allan softly. “Georgie Stevens. Johnnie Lind. Good evening, boys. Having a nice time breaking the windows of decent people, are you?”
Michael and Tim. had crowded to the threshold. “Watch it!” called Michael. “There’re two of them, Allan, and one of them has a rock.”
But Allan was leaping lightly from the doorstep, and for an instant Michael saw his face, white and smiling. It was a savage and lustful face, and Michael cried out. Stevens and Lind stood paralyzed, their mouths open. Allan was on them in an instant, and in an instant he had caught them both by the collar. He shook them swiftly, like a cat, and then he brought their heads together seemingly without an effort. A loud dull crack resounded through the street. The heads came together, again and again, and the young men began to scream and twist in Allan’s hands. For a time, which appeared endless to Michael, the head-cracking went on without Allan’s uttering a single word.
Then Allan flung both limp bodies into the running and icy gutter. Without compunction, he kicked both solidly in the ribs, his boots glittering dully in the lamplight. The young men groaned and lay still, dazed, their mouths running with blood. Allan stood over them, and he laughed aloud.
“The next time,” he said, “I’ll kill you. You understand that, don’t you? I’ll kill you—you swine.”
He was hardly mussed. He straightened his sleeves, shot his cuffs, shrugged his shoulders. He stood on the curb, smoothed down his hair. Slender, nonchalant, exuding power, he surveyed his work, and was pleased. He added, “Remember me to the rest of the boys, Georgie and Johnnie. I’d like to meet them again, like this. It’s always a pleasure to have this kind of talk with you.”
He gave himself a last fastidious dusting-off and turned back to the house. His father and brother let him enter, in silence. Allan went to his mother and stood beside her. “Stop crying, Ma,” he said gently. “We’ll have those windows mended tomorrow. In the meantime, if we can find some cardboard, or planks, we’ll cover them up.”
Tim closed the door very slowly. His seamed face was somber. He said in a slow and foreboding voice, “It is you who brought this on us. The men know you—you left ’em, deserted ’em. … It’s a punishment on us all.”
“Hell,” said Allan easily, but his fierce eye brightened bitterly on his father. “I suppose that is why they broke our windows two years ago, and a year before that, too.” He tried to control his rage. “Do you know what is wrong with them? First of all, it was your painting of the house, and Ma’s keeping it clean, and your respectability. Then it was our religion, and you being an immigrant, you old fool. And now it is even more unpardonable: they’re envious. Envy is always like that, murderous and hating and full of malice.” He remembered the men in the gutter, and he began to laugh.
“It’s envy it is, is it?” bellowed Tim, purpling again. His fists knotted. “It’s the poor souls rememberin’.…”
Allan uttered an obscene word half under his breath. Tim advanced upon him. But Michael put himself in his way, and laid his hand on his father’s shoulder. He was smiling broadly, though his eyes remained serious.
“Allan’s right, Dad. It is only envy. One of the deadly sins. Perhaps the most terrible of them all.”
Tim stopped, his head bent and lowering like a bull’s. He hesitated. His new awe for Michael halted and silenced him.
“You should be proud again of Allan. What a fighter he is, an Irish fighter! And it was you who taught him, Dad. Aren’t we a race of fighters?” Michael began to laugh. “Think of it, two against one, and he fought them down!”
Tim’s lower lip thrust out. The grimness stayed on his face but his blue eyes sparkled. He said, “Fine talk this is for a Brother, I’m thinkin’. Fine Christian talk.”
But Michael was convulsed with his laughter. He bent double. Mrs. Marshall began to smile wanly, and her hand stole to Allan’s arm. Tim stared blankly at his younger son, then all at once he melted and he started to shake with deep and rumbling mirth. He went to Allan and sheepishly struck his shoulder with his clenched fist. “But ye don’t kick a man when he’s down,” he said.
Allan smiled. “I didn’t have an appetite before. I have a splendid one, now.”
Mary Marshall busied herself about the stove while father and sons found flat pieces of wood to nail over the broken windows. Allan worked at one, and it was while he was doing so that he noticed the family’s old crèche standing nearby. One of the thrown stones had fallen on the Infant Jesus in His cradle, and the head was smashed. Allan, hammer in hand, stood and looked at it. Suddenly, out of the depths of him roared a black rage so intense that he became weak, and all that was still hesitant and doubtful in him, all that was still young, died. He began to hammer, and every stroke was a blow.
33
On May 30th Michael Marshall wrote to his brother. The letter began humorously and quietly, an account of his new life. Then he had written:
“The letters I receive from Dad and Ma are full of misery. … I understand the break between you is complete, since your coming marriage to Miss Cornelia deWitt has been announced for June 5th. Our parents cannot overlook the fact that you are marrying out of the Church, and I understand from Father Tobin that you have not approached him. For Dad and Ma to have grandchildren not brought up in the Faith will be a grave sorrow and anguish to them.”
For God’s sake, thought Allan with disgust. He tore the letter into small pieces and threw them away. Medievalism. He walked up and down his pleasant if somewhat ponderous sitting room in the Philadelphia House, and as he did so he sipped at a glass of whisky. Here he was, about to marry the heiress of a great railroad empire, and his ridiculous parents, and brother, were distressed over the “Faith!”
He sat down near an open window, this early May afternoon. The sky was blue and warm, and the sound of traffic below very soothing. Head of the Portersville legal staff of the Interstate Railroad Company—Allan Marshall. Called into constant consultation with the Philadelphia staff, who greatly respected him and who fawned on him. A long jump from last May, Allan reflected. But not far enough—not ever far enough. His thoughts, becoming golden, meditated on the future, and he forgot his brother the monk, and his parents. He refilled his glass, glanced at his watch. There was a dinner tonight, at the home of the Brownells. He must soon begin to dress.
He thought of Cornelia and smiled. He recalled the warmth of her, and the springing youth, the ebullient spirits, the sly, ribald laughter, the wit, the beauty. “We shall honeymoon in our home in Newport,” she had told him. “Before the family descends on us. Papa is giving you a yacht, and this is a secret. Shall you call it Cornelia, darling? But, of course. Or Corallan, perhaps. Yes, that is much better. Corallan. Kiss me, dear. Do you know how much I love you? Look in my eyes. I never loved anyone, not even Papa, as much as I love you.”
He had looked indulgently into her eyes and had seen the quickening yellow fire of them, and then her arms had been about him hungrily, and her lips on his.
Hunger, he thought now. My Cornelia is a devourer. The glass paused at his mouth. He stared through the windows for a long time. Then he threw the whisky down his throat and said aloud, “Damn.” Cornelia was only a young girl of twenty; he was nearly twenty-eight. He was a match for any young lioness, and besides, he loved her. How could she threaten him in any way, she who was so full of humor and tolerance and gaiety, who wanted nothing but to be petted and stroked and admired?
No one could be kinder to him than Rufus deWitt these days. Rufus was proud of him. His salary was enormous. His position was assured. He remembered the magnificent ball given for him and Cornelia last January in the deWitt mansion in New York. There he had met the owners of fabulous names: the Gunthers, the Regans, the Vanderbilts, the Whitneys. He had conducted himself with reserve and elegance, and Cornelia and her father had chuckled, pleased. He had liked Mr. Gunther who had discussed the automatic coupler with him admiringly.
Newport for a few weeks. Then home
again to Portersville, to that beautiful house on the mountainside, where, only a year ago, he had been one of the gardeners. Then New York again, then the Riviera and Paris, and London and Berlin. The honeymoon, interspersed with hard work at home, would last a year, Rufus had said. Allan shook his head, and for a moment he was dizzy. Then he was overcome with such an enormous excitement that he could sit no longer but must begin his rapid pacing up and down the room. There were times when he could not believe what had happened to him, so swiftly, so surely. A man prepared for endless hard years of poverty and hardship, working alone with only his own faith in himself to sustain him. He worked in silence, closed in by cold walls; he walked dirty streets in shabby clothing. His stomach was never entirely filled. His hands were hard, calloused, and gritty. In the winter he shivered under inadequate blankets. The smell of cabbage and dust and coal gas choked his nostrils. There were raucous voices about him, and the heavy stampings of patched boots. In the midst of it all he worked alone. And then one morning it was all over, and the fruits of his work, the golden apples in the golden basket, were given to him in one generous and overwhelming gift, not one by one, grudgingly, but all.
The wedding was to be held in the First Presbyterian Church in Portersville, the “family church,” Rufus had informed Allan seriously, with not even a twinkle of an eye. Allan had agreed, just as seriously. He knew very well, from Cornelia, that though the family supported the church, and had its own plush-upholstered pew there, Rufus and Cornelia rarely, if ever, attended any religious services. They never spoke of religion; it did not exist for them, just as poverty and fear did not exist for them. They were as “godless” as fine wild animals in a jungle where they were kings. To call them anti-religious was absurd, for God was only a name to them and had never been a part of their lives, or even a subject of speculation.
One matter had made Rufus uneasy, for his wife had mentioned it over and over, hysterically. So one day he had said to Allan, “Your parents, my boy. They—they will, of course, be present at the wedding.”
Some strange malice had impelled Allan to pretend to hesitate gravely. Then Allan had said, “I hardly think so, sir. You see, I am marrying out of the Church.”
Rufus had stared at him blankly, completely baffled at this remark. Allan explained. Rufus wrinkled his brows, and his eyes, so like Cornelia’s, had opened wide with incredulous laughter. Rufus said, “Well, well. How very odd. Really odd. Do you mean, my boy, that there are people who actually…” He had shaken his head and laughed again. But he was immensely relieved. It would have been impossible to have Allan’s parents at the wedding. Tolerance could go only so far.
Rufus had had much less trouble with his mother about the coming marriage. She, like Rufus, was more concerned with “losing” Cornelia than with Allan’s background and family. “The only child!” she had wept, completely forgetting her grandsons. She had relapsed into maudlin pity for herself and her son, and it was not until Estelle (protesting wildly against “this most improper and outrageous marriage with a man who is little better than a laborer”) had described Allan’s personality in terms which strongly suggested Aaron deWitt to his widow, that Sophia had risen, battling furiously for the young people. And she fought not only with fury but with pleasure, for in this way she could completely frustrate her daughter-in-law.
With Cornelia, Allan had visited the Purcells on a few occasions. It was hard for the young man to believe that Lydia was Cornelia’s mother, and he was incredulous at the affection between the two women. He had great respect and admiration for Lydia, for when she was certain that Cornelia loved him, she had accepted the situation graciously and coolly. She had long ago come to the sound conclusion that no one had a right to interfere with another’s life, though there were times when she said to her husband, “Cornelia will always be the victor in any situation. I am beginning to worry about young Allan, however. There is something mysterious about him, something that can never be touched. He has the capacity to suffer enormously.” To her surprise, Jim Purcell agreed with her. He said, “The feller thinks he’s ruthless. That’s different from being ruthless.” Only Laura had appeared distressed, and she would not explain. When Allan and Cornelia arrived, she usually managed to be absent. Sophia had suggested a double wedding, and Laura had been unaccountably disturbed by the suggestion.
All in all, Allan found matters very satisfactory. If sometimes he awakened in the night with a sensation of fear and foreboding, he explained this to himself easily. Things had happened too fast, and in too great a profusion. A man needed time to adjust. He would light a gaslight and take up the fine miniature of Cornelia, painted on ivory, and look into the smiling eyes and at the alluringly jocose mouth, and he would be reassured. He would say to himself: Even if I did not love the wench I’d marry her. Sometimes he found it necessary to take a drink if he was to fall asleep again.
He paused now, beside the miniature, and took it up in his hands and returned the smile. “Minx,” he said aloud. He put down the miniature and lit a cigarette and smoked it rapidly. He was sweating a little. All this excitement—all these arrangements—all these parties. And the working pace. He glanced at himself in the mirror; his black and curling hair was damp along his forehead. His features had sharpened; his nose appeared longer and keener. His eyes were feverish. His clothing was fitting him too loosely, and he impatiently supposed that it was because even the best of food no longer interested him. Suddenly there was a stiff cold shaking in him, in spite of the warmth of the evening. It was as if his very bones were chilled. He poured another drink for himself. When someone knocked discreetly at his door he jumped and cursed. An elderly hotel clerk stood outside and obsequiously informed the young man that a certain gentleman, a Mr. Boyle, wished to know if he could come up for a few minutes.
Allan frowned. He had almost forgotten old Dan Boyle, and he had no desire to see him again. That ignorant old boar, that ancient railroader who hated the “interests,” though he was actually one of them now! The interview would be violent or unnerving. Allan said, “Please tell Mr. Boyle I am not—” He was interrupted by a bellow from behind the clerk, and there stood Dan Boyle, squat, broad as an old tree trunk, fierce and red of face, flat of nose, fiery blue of eye, and with a big splayed mouth that suggested furious purpose. He held a wide black hat in his hand, a senator’s hat, and the top of his round head was covered with a tangled mass of white curls. He wore the richest of black broadcloth, but his brocaded waistcoat, flowered and vulgar, was reprehensible, and his watch chain, as thick as a man’s thumb, dangled a number of seals and other miscellaneous objects. The cigar in his mouth was huge and stinking. He shouted, “My bhoy! Aloysius! The divil with ye; it’s comin’ in I am.”
He shouldered his way past the quaking clerk, whom Allan tipped and hastily dismissed. When Allan turned to his unwelcome guest, Mr. Boyle was critically studying the sitting room. “Sure, and it’s a long way ye’ve come, ye rascal. Let me look at ye.” He scrutinized Allan, and the choleric blue eyes narrowed. “Humph,” he commented. He lowered his short bulk into a chair and kept his disconcerting gaze on the younger man. He was so stout that he wheezed constantly. His eyebrows, white as snow, jutted far out over his big face like a hoary cliff.
“A drink?” asked Allan somewhat lamely. Mr. Boyle grunted, and Allan poured a glass of whisky. Mr. Boyle drank it almost in one gulp, not once glancing away from his host. He put the glass on the table slowly, pursed up his lips. “And what would be the matter with my godson?” he asked. Now the choler was leaving his eyes.
“Matter?” asked Allan, sitting opposite the old man. He smiled easily. “I’m glad to see you, Dan.”
“It’s the liar ye are,” said Mr. Boyle, but without rancor. “I’m here because I wanted to tear you from limb to limb, and beat hell out of ye.” He shook his head. “But not now, I’m thinkin’.” He stared at the whisky bottle and again shook his head. “I've been talkin’ with your Dad.”
Allan was silent, an
d his face closed. “Ye’ll be wantin’ to know about thim,” said Mr. Boyle, ignoring Allan’s expression. “It’s a fine actor ye are, but not good enough for old Dan. So I’ll tell ye now that your Dad is a poor bewildered man and your Mum will have nothin’ said against her bhoy. So there’s no harmony in that house, and it’s missin’ they are the Franciscan son, with his oil on the waters.
“The mother has a cough, since February,” went on the old man. “So I’m tendin’ thim the money for a little house in the country.” He eyed Allan shrewdly. “It’s what you wanted, Aloysius, and the poor Dad said no. So ye’ll be makin’ me out a check for two thousand dollars today, so ye’ll have the satisfaction. Nice house, with a garden it is, and someday ye’ll be a-tellin’ Of thim that ye bought it with your own money.”
Allan’s eyes quickened. “Thanks, Dan,” he said.
Mr. Boyle smiled sadly. “Ye’ll not be waitin’ too long, I’m hopin’.” He paused a moment, and his red forehead crinkled. “Ye are bein’ called a hypocrite and a deserter by the workers. It’s said ye’ve used thim. Maybe ye did, in your crafty way. Yes. But I know somethin’ they do not. It was I who offered to send you to school years ago, for the studyin’ of the law, the labor law, so ye could be a-helpin’ of the lads. And ye refused. Ye preferred to work your way, ye who come of the good family in County Mayo. Worked till your hands was raw. Why? I know now. It was not in your soul to accept a man’s money for a lie.” He smiled again at Allan, and there was something of paternal love and understanding in that smile. “It’s à good bhoy ye are, Aloysius, and someday ye won’t be ashamed of it.”
Allan’s mouth tightened irritably. “Let’s not be sentimental, Dan. It’s true I wanted no help from you; I’ll never take help from any man.” All at once his eyes brightened with ferocity. “I’ve always hated the ‘workers,’ as you call them—from my childhood. There is no more good in them than in any other classification of men.” He stopped a moment, and the ferocity deepened in his eyes. Then he told Mr. Boyle of the Christmas episode, and the smashed figure in the crèche. The old man listened soberly, and nodded his head from time to time. Yet, there seemed a profound satisfaction in him which Allan saw but could not understand. When Allan had finished, Mr. Boyle broke into a bellow of laughter and slapped his knees. “Ah, that is a fight I should have seen! A noble fight.” He put up his fists and shadowboxed in the air with delight.