But Tony only gave her an agonized glance, and his mouth opened speechlessly. Allan, alarmed for him, put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “What is it?” he demanded sharply. “What is wrong?”
Tony whispered, “I went in to see him—you see, this afternoon he had gone out into the storm—I was downstairs—I should have turned back to speak to him—I might have prevented it. …”
Cornelia wet her lips. She lifted herself straight in her chair. She, like Tony, whispered. “What is it? For God’s sake, what is it?” Her hand caught at Allan’s arm protectingly.
“Jon,” said Tony, and his eyes filled with tears. “He’s dead. He must have killed himself—there was the box on the table … poison …”
42
Allan Marshall had once told Cornelia bitterly: “A witticism is an unpardonable answer to a cry of pain.”
But there are times, thought Cornelia, when a witticism is the only answer to maudlin sentimentality and self-pity. She sat in her sitting room overlooking Fifth Avenue, facing her desk, and with a pen in her hand. She had begun to write to her son Tony, who was now in his seminary.
“You are such a damn fool, my dear,” she wrote, on the third page, “and apparently your ‘superior’ thinks so too, considering his advice, though he would hardly be so blunt as I. Why do you torment yourself so, and brood over something which was not your fault, and accuse yourself endlessly until you become a bore to everyone?
“You know as well as I do that the autopsy showed clearly that the tablets which Jon had stupidly swallowed had not caused his death at all. The drug had become, over all those years, completely deteriorated and ineffective. He could have taken a hundred of the same without a single bad effect. The verdict was ‘death from natural causes.’ But you know all this. Who can say what brings death about in such cases? It is true there were no signs of any organic defect, but who can truly and dogmatically declare that there is nothing to the theory that a man can will death for himself? I am sure Jon did. It is quite possible that his death was a mercy for himself, and for others. I doubt very much that if you ‘had gone back,’ as you have repeated ad nauseam, that you could have helped him in any way.
“Your grandfather is still in a state of partial shock since Jon’s death, and this is a tremendous worry to us all. He had been out for a drive only twice since we returned to New York, and now that he fully realizes that you have permanently removed yourself from the family, and the affairs of the family, he is very depressed. If you MUST feel guilty about something, you could begin with your grandfather. He can do very little now about the road except when some extreme emergency comes up, and even then your father tries to spare him. This means added burdens and responsibilities for your father. He, too, is beginning to realize what it means to all of us for you to go away; for eighteen years he has thought of you as his natural successor. Here is another point about which you may feel guilty, if you wish.
“Your ‘Auntie Estelle’ does nothing to raise the horrible gloom which surrounds us; in all truth she appears determined not to let a single ray of light intrude through it. It was only two weeks ago when she got up from bed and decided to hold mourning court for her friends in one of the drawing rooms instead of her bedroom. The murmurs and sniffles and sobs over the tea, every day, day in and out, infuriate me while they distress your grandfather. I have literally had to lock her out of his rooms because she made a habit of invading them nightly to scream at him and reproach him for having ‘treated our poor child so.’ The house is a bedlam, and big as it is there is not a corner which does not echo with moans and sighs and the rustling of black silk and the subdued clink of teacups and the foolish comfortings of morbid ‘friends.’
“Instead of indulging yourself in self-pity and squalid ‘regrets,’ you might help me with Dolores. We had hoped to announce her engagement to Dicky this spring, in Paris, but now she writes me very impudently that I may as well put the whole matter out of my mind as she had definitely decided against the marriage. He is one of the greatest catches in Europe, though not very well off, and a most estimable young man and with a most desirable title. Dolores could never do better; in fact I don’t think she’ll ever have another offer. Why don’t you write her and put some sense into her head? If something is not done—and I haven’t given up yet—she will become one of those appalling old spinsters who spend their sterile lives in what we used to call ‘good works.’ Your father does not particularly care for Dicky, either, but he is slowly coming to the conclusion that Dolores is in real danger of spinsterhood, as she takes no interest in young men except as casual friends. And she will be nineteen in September.
“I am glad that you went to Groton to see DeWitt, but I had to laugh at your bewilderment at discovering that he didn’t need sympathy at all, but was doing very well, thank you. It’s nice of you to pray for him. I assure you he will get along splendidly without a single prayer in his behalf. He is that kind of a boy, and is the only hope your father has. Are you feeling a little guilty? Good; I hope so.
“You might be interested in hearing that your father has promised Miles a sound position on the road when he is graduated from Harvard. I was against it, but now I approve. Miles is a very serious boy, and has convinced even me that he will be an asset to the company. He is a genuine ‘railroader,’ which surprised me very much. And, after all, his father is a director and there is considerable stock in that family. I did not like Miles, for I’ve always believed he was a schemer. I still believe it, but I have begun to like him for very sound qualities I did not suspect he had. I cannot look at my own children, except DeWitt, with any pleasure; it is ironical that I find pleasure in one or two of the Peales. Mary had quite a shock when you went away; I had hoped there would be a match between you. But she is turning her interest upon DeWitt and visited him a short time ago, and he writes me, in his usual reserved way, that he ‘enjoyed’ seeing her. I hope the ‘enjoyment’ will turn into something important in a few years.
“I have had only one letter from my mother. She is not at all well since the grippe she acquired on her way home that awful Thanksgiving Day. After all, three hours in the terrible storm in a sleigh, though full of fur robes, was an ordeal for a woman her age. She and Ruth never speak of those hours when they were lost on the mountains, and when the horses could not force their way through the drifts. I would appreciate it if you could spare a few minutes from your sickly preoccupation with Jon to write to her regularly. Ruth is of no particular use to her and whines, in her letters, about wanting to go to The Hague very soon to ‘study’ with the peace missions. She seems all wrought up about something, and her letters are full of black suspicions about ‘coming wars,’ which is all nonsense, of course. She even hints she is writing a book about it all, and she goes off for days at a time, leaving her mother, to consult with the Quakers in Philadelphia.
“You see, we have troubles and anxieties, ourselves. Your imaginings seem very trivial and exasperating to me. Do whatever you do in a seminary with every bit of vigor you have. I really won’t forgive you for everything until you become at least an archbishop, or better, a cardinal.”
Curse it, thought Cornelia, and threw aside her pen. She was invariably angered when “the family” forced itself implacably upon her attention, and compelled her to write letters. She stood up and went to the windows overlooking Fifth Avenue. It was snowing heavily, and slush was gathering on the sidewalks and the streets. Brown and white houses floated insubstantially in wild blows of gray-white snow. Traffic choked the streets: omnibuses and drays and carriages, and a few red automobiles that steamed in the cold winter afternoon. She could hear the blatting of the horns even high up here, and even through the silk-shrouded windows. Black and brown figures thronged the walks; umbrellas tilted and blew; street lamps were already being lighted by little scurrying men, and the yellow glow of them was almost obliterated by the blizzard. The old excitement that had always filled Cornelia when looking down at Fifth Avenue did
not come to her. She and Allan were to attend a Vanderbilt ball that night, and she had chosen a turquoise satin with a train to wear with her magnificent pearls and aquamarines. It was, as the newspapers said, “an occasion.” Estelle had made a most deplorable and screaming fuss about the matter; the family was in mourning; it was unspeakable and common to attend social gatherings so soon after Jon’s death—hardly three months. Cornelia, who rarely quarreled with anyone (for the reason that quarrels bored her), had fought exasperatedly with her stepmother. She and Allan, she said, were not in mourning for anyone, and if her half-brother had chosen to die, it was certainly not her affair.
Damn her, thought Cornelia, letting the golden silk of the draperies drop into place, shutting out the wintry scene below. If anyone killed Jon she did. She is not going to stop us from going, even if she chokes to death, which would be the only intelligent thing she could ever do. And this time I am going to be firm with Papa, too; we have given in too much to Estelle’s rages in order to let him “have peace.”
In spite of her unquenchable buoyancy, Cornelia could not shake off her depression. Her gilt and jeweled clock on her bedside table chimed half-past four. She compared it with her watch. Allan should have returned from Philadelphia by now. Doubtless, the train had been delayed by the snow. And Allan and I must have at least an hour to dress, she thought, fuming. Well, as this ball is to be given in our honor, I’ll simply have to leave without him, if he doesn’t return in time. She rang the servants’ bell, and then sent for Rufus’s “man.”
He informed her that he would, indeed, lock all his master’s doors and keep guard over them and admit no one. Cornelia suggested her father’s customary sedative a little earlier than usual. The valet then informed Cornelia that Mr. Marshall’s carriage had just driven up, and with immense relief, she ran down the circular marble staircase in the dusk to meet her husband, the valet hurriedly switching on the electric lights like a flare behind her. He reflected that for a lady of “Mrs. Marshall’s age” she was certainly uncommonly fleet-footed and active; he noticed that she lifted her skirts very high as she flew down the stairs and that she had long and robust legs, like a youth’s, and that she did not touch the balustrade in her passage.
The butler was just opening the glass and grilled door as Cornelia reached the marble hall with its vast areas strewn with too many Oriental rugs. Now the hall bloomed with myriad electric fixtures fastened to the crimson damask walls, and sprang out in the white arms and hands of the fine old statues of Greek gods and goddesses standing in distant corners. A monster white marble fireplace fluttered with the burning of monster logs, and the glimmering white floor reflected sheets and lances of red fire. Yet the great hall was cold, and as Allan entered with his heavy brief case, a cloud of snow flies entered with him, dancing and whirling. She ran to him exuberantly, shouting that she had been worried about the train, and throwing her arms about his shoulders and kissing him heartily. He held her to him briefly, warning her of his dampness, then put her aside to rid himself of his coat and muffler and derby. She saw at once that he was desperately tired and preoccupied.
He stood for a few moments before the hall fire and rubbed his cold hands and tried to smile at his wife. There was a strained pallor under his dark skin, “Something’s wrong,” thought Cornelia, and braced herself for it. She put her arm in his and drew him to one of the enormous drawing rooms. “We’ll have a drink at once,” she said. “You’re chilled. I don’t know why you did not use the private car. The Pullmans are always drafty—and in this weather!”
When Allan, as a young man, had wandered on the outside of this house and had lusted for it, he had believed that to live within those formidable walls of stone and glass and grills and copper doors would be the ultimate in human desirability. Now he loathed the mansion, with its music room and gilt chairs, pipe organ, and monolith of a grand piano; its Chinese and bronze urns overflowing with exotic plants; its drawing rooms hanging with precious ancient tapestries; its archways draped in silken velvets; its Louis XVI and old Spanish brocaded chairs; its golden or painted ceilings flowing with nymphs and cherubs; its pier glasses; its giant marble and ebony chests; its Renaissance paintings on the damask walls; its rare tables and crystal, marble, painted, or golden lamps; its Persian rugs and murals and palms in Chinese tubs; its cloisonné vases on teakwood stands; its statues and statuettes in every niche and corner; its automatic elevators with velvet seats; and its dining room which could seat seventy-five people at the Italian refectory table in thronelike Italian chairs. It had, he thought, the crowded magnificence of a museum; millions of dollars had erected and furnished it, and it was without taste, though not without grandeur, from the glittering ballroom to the marble bathrooms fit for a Nero.
He pulled back on the threshold of the tremendous first drawing room, shivering. Despite a very efficient heating system, and the constantly burning fires, the room was chilly. “Let’s go into the library,” he said. Cornelia agreed. The library was only a trifle smaller, but the thousands of books on the walls (rare volumes and folios) gave a false sense of seclusion and warmth to the room. Here, too, in a black marble fireplace, a lusty fire roared. The dark blue velvet draperies had been drawn over the ceiling-high windows, and the blue-velvet rug shimmered like thrown silk in the firelight. A maid in smart black and white was turning on the wall brackets and the red and blue lamps, and she curtsied as Allan and Cornelia entered, the butler at their heels. Cornelia briskly ordered whisky and soda, and husband and wife sat down near the fire on the blue-leather chairs.
“We can only waste half an hour,” said Cornelia, lifting her skirts frankly so that the warmth could reach her legs. She reached for a cigarette and the butler lighted it and offered the crystal box to Allan. “Remember? The Vanderbilts tonight. And we must dress and then go in to see Papa for a few minutes before leaving.”
“My God, I’d forgotten,” said Allan wearily.
“We’re the guests of honor. What a day! I’ll certainly be glad to leave for France next week.” She smiled at him encouragingly, bracing herself again. Her eyes sparkled and her rouged face was vital in the lamplight. She raised her glass. “Here’s to us, pet.”
He drank thirstily, and she watched him. He looked about the library, at its long mahogany table and dark chairs, at its walls of books and paintings. He said, “What a damned gloomy house this is.” As he had said this so often in the past, Cornelia ignored the remark. She waited for him to go on. The butler had been dismissed, and Allan rose and refilled his glass. Cornelia frowned. She said, “Not too much, please, dear. I know you’re cold, but we do have to go out.” He sat down and again drank, still thirstily.
“How was Portersville?” asked Cornelia. “Damn it, I wish we were there. I hate this house, too.”
“We’ve just finished probating Jon’s will,” said Allan. He looked into his glass. He had pulled up the legs of his damp trousers, and his ankles, very slender and neat in their black silk, moved Cornelia to tenderness. “He left all his money to Miles, every penny of it. A very curious will.”
Cornelia stared. “To Miles Peale? How extraordinary!” Her eyes narrowed and her painted mouth twisted. “I wonder why?” She gave a short laugh like a bark. “I can’t believe there is anything wrong with Miles!”
Allan’s head was bent; he looked at his wife, and below the black irises of his eyes a white area glittered. “There isn’t. But that wasn’t Jon’s fault. He tried. Anyway, I suppose there’ll be whispered and tittering remarks behind hands, and I’m sorry for Miles. ‘To my dear and beloved kinsman, Miles Peale, I hereby bequeath—’ Well, that ‘kinsman’ business takes some of the curse off it.”
“How much?” demanded Cornelia.
“One million, eight hundred thousand dollars.”
Cornelia said, “One million, eight hundred thousand. Not an enormous lot, but considerable. Invested?”
“Half in Carnegie. Miles is going to keep it invested that way. He has a good mind.” br />
“Estelle isn’t going to like this.”
The preoccupation remained on Allan’s face. He put down his glass. “I think,” he said, “that you’ll soon be a director of the road, Cornelia. The directors are getting over their original outrage. Only one, today, muttered something about the ‘New Woman.’”
Cornelia roared. “I’ll bet anything you wish that he was Pat Peale!”
“You’d win the bet.” He picked up his empty glass, glanced at Cornelia, and put it down heavily. He clasped his hands between his knees and looked at the fire. Cornelia snapped open her watch. “Ten minutes,” she began. Allan jerked upright. “Damn it, Cornelia! What the hell does time matter?” His voice was a shout of rage, and Cornelia gazed at him thoughtfully, without answering. He jumped to his feet and began to pace up and down restlessly, his hands in his pockets, and Cornelia said to herself: Yes, it’s something, and it’s bad, and he’s afraid to tell me, and he’s distracted. She folded her hands on her knees, and waited.
Allan stopped by her chair, and put his hand on her head. She stiffened, forced herself to smile. “I’m sorry I disturbed you about the time, but we are the guests of honor, you know. Hell, itself, wouldn’t prevent me from going.”
Allan’s hand dropped from her head, and he turned away. Cornelia’s fingers wound themselves around the short pearl necklace which enclosed her high boned collar. She repeated, “Hell, itself.”
Allan said desperately, “Cornelia. …” She lifted her hand and broke in pleasantly: “I wrote to Tony today. Very tiresome. He’s still worrying about. Jon, and blaming himself. But you read his letter of a few days ago. I thought Tony had some intelligence.”
“I saw my father today,” said Allan, as if he had not heard her.
Cornelia let out a small exhalation. It was only his father, then.