There was a pigskin case on his dresser, and he opened it, seeing all his movements in tall and spectral mirrors. He lifted the bottle that lay within the case and put it to his mouth and drank long and deeply. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The fire had long since died. There was a dank chill in the big room, like a cellar, and Allan pulled the rose-silk eiderdown from the bed, wrapped it around him, and sat down with his bottle of whisky. Everywhere, his image was reflected back to him, and the shadowy light of the lamp; he saw himself huddled in the eiderdown, and he was sick with pain.
He could see his daughter Dolores as he had seen her only a few hours ago, a daughter he did not know. There she had sat, in pale satin the color of ice, her white shoulders and throat bare, her light blond hair braided in a coronet on her small, high head, pearls and diamonds glistening about her neck and falling onto her breast. She had sat beside her father, and she had given him frequent faint smiles and sometimes had glanced at him with shy love. But when he had looked into her eyes it was like looking into blueness behind glass, utterly without expression. She talked of her child, little Alexander, and she spoke of the races she and her husband had attended, and of the gardens and the gardeners, who were Scotchmen, and of the King and Queen who were so gracious to her at their garden parties and in the Palace. She talked of everything, and talked of nothing. There was no color in her smooth cheeks, and only the faintest of rose in her lips, which were tight and very still in repose, like the lips of a statue. The huge chandelier above the dining table glimmered and flickered with candles and crystal, and the fugitive light ran over the classical outlines of her face.
Allan, as usual, had drunk too much, and during a moment’s pause he had leaned toward Dolores and had whispered, “Don’t you remember me, darling? I am your father, and I love you.” She had turned to him and had smiled vaguely and gently. He had then said, “Dolores, it is too late, but why did you do it? You aren’t happy. …”
It was then that she had looked at him fully, and for the first time the glass slipped away from between them and she was gazing at him with an expression of intense and unfathomable amazement, and her mouth had opened on a startled sound. And then a look of affront—to his greater surprise—passed over her face, and she had turned to the man on her left and had not spoken to her father again at the table. I have lost my daughter, thought Allan. But where and when I do not know.
He drank again now, pulling deeply at the bottle as a child pulls at the breast. The whisky ran through him, quickening his blood, slowing his shivers. As moments passed, his brain began to warm in the familiar and soothing incandescence, and he could remember everything. There was Cornelia at her son-in-law’s right hand, the candle-blaze full on her face, and it was a large face coarsely painted on coarse canvas, the powder and the rouge and the crow’s feet and the dyed red hair making her look like a gay, indomitable harridan, surging with cunning and strength and an incredible lust for living. She blinked, and her eyes were the eyes of a lioness caught in vivid daylight, a predatory lioness whose eagerness for hunting and flesh would never be satiated. Her throat and halfcovered breast were white as milk, and so intense was the lifeforce in Cornelia that her body seemed to palpitate. She was wearing her favorite color, a kind of electric blue, and the lace and silk showed off her narrow waist and swelling hips superbly. The diamonds in her hair, about her neck, and on her wrists and arms and fingers, coruscated with colored fire in the shifting light. Never had she appeared so fearful and so powerful to her husband, and he winced at her loud hoarse voice booming in the vast room with its ancient table and buffets and cabinets and princely chairs, its stone walls and tapestries and dusky paintings. She joked and howled with laughter, and her son-in-law regarded her affectionately, for he was not offended by her vulgarity but rather appeared fascinated by it. His guests, a confusion of faces that Allan never attempted to sort out, or to know, appeared equally entertained and fascinated, and listened with enjoyment.
Allan had long ceased to dislike the little wiry man who was his daughter’s husband. He even liked him, reluctantly, and sometimes was sorry for him without reason. The birdlike profile, with its great hawk’s nose, was not the profile of a bird of prey, but gentle and thin and almost timid, the receding chin defensive, the sloping forehead retreating to a small and balding head. All his features, and his hands, and his body, were patrician and attenuated, and his tiny avian eyes, bright and kind, kindled with intellect. Though he spoke courteously to his guests, and listened to them, and was anxious for their comfort, and scrutinized the wine labels carefully, his gaze invariably came back to Dolores. There it melted, sought, shone with tenderness. Dolores, in turn, seemed unconscious of the presence of her husband.
Lord Gibson-Hamilton was even considerate and patient with old Estelle deWitt, and would listen when no one else paid her any attention. He would let her prattle, and would bend his head toward her with an attentive smile, caring for her desires. She had dwindled these last years, but her wrinkled face still simpered inanely, and she still strove for “radiance,” and her thin white hair was still piled in coquettish curls on her pink skull. Since Rufus’s death she had dressed invariably in black, but with many pearls and other gems, and her puckered hands were heavy with rings. As her mind was so immature and commonplace, her brown eyes were the full and distended eyes of a very young girl, and they beamed happily tonight in such distinguished company.
What had been said at that dinner? Allan, swimming with alcohol, could not remember. He was engrossed with his own wretched thoughts, and the tall waxen image of his daughter beside him. Occasionally Cornelia’s resounding voice irritated him, and he wondered at the genuine laughter she invoked.
There had been something said about riding early in the morning, and Cornelia had shouted her approval. No matter how late she went to bed, she was always up by six o’clock in the morning, eager for life, bursting with vitality. She had suggested tennis later in the day, and Richard Gibson-Hamilton, with admiration, had assented. Allan shuddered, and Cornelia had said in her rallying way, “Don’t expect anything of Allan. He hates the morning, and always has. He hates sports, too, and flinches at the sight of a horse or a tennis racket.”
The wine was excellent, and Allan had drunk much of it. One of the butlers was almost continually behind his chair, pouring. Cornelia had frowned once, staring pointedly at her husband with her hazel eyes, then had shrugged. She had hoped that he would not “make a fool of himself, as usual,” or grow morose or quarrelsome. Allan, she thought privately, simply had no capacity for alcohol in any form.
Later, the family had the first glimpse of the baby, Richard’s son and heir. The little man had taken his child in his arms and had held him tightly, kissing him with the tenderest hunger. He had to be reminded by Dolores that perhaps her parents might wish to hold the boy for a few moments. He had apologized, looked about him anxiously, and then, as if by instinct, he had given the baby to Allan, who was already swaying slightly.
The child was slight, yet had a long body and an alert and sensitive face, full of curiosity and friendliness. But his light brown eyes were grave, and he had inspected Allan closely before smiling. Wisps of fine brown hair spread out in an aureole about his head, and he had a firm dimple in his chin. The warmth of him in Allan’s arms suddenly penetrated to Allan’s exhausted heart, and he held the baby close to him with so vehement a gesture that the nurse moved forward in alarm. But little Alexander did not cry out. He let himself be pressed to his grandfather, and he was very still.
“Why, the little spalpeen!” Allan had said in a blurred and shaking voice. “It’s the fine lad he is, sure, and it is a fine lad, and it will be a fine man, I am hoping. And praying. It’s the face of my mother he has, the saint’s face, with the holy light in the eyes.”
Estelle was embarrassed, Cornelia amused and annoyed. Allan was always “far gone” when he relapsed into the brogue of his childhood, and she began to scheme how to whisk him aw
ay before be made himself objectionable and insulting. She thought Allan very dramatic, clutching the child like that, a very ordinary-looking child in her opinion, and nothing to elicit charmed exclamations. His only asset was that some day he would inherit his father’s title and estates and position in international society. With a grin of good humor, she took the boy from Allan’s straining arms, and held him out at arm’s length and scrutinized him. “Well,” she said, “a nice baby, I suppose. At least he doesn’t squall and struggle.”
The warm nursery swam in firelight and lamplight before Allan. Dolores was a tall shadow nearby. Richard watched his father-in-law, and something tightened in his meager breast, for Allan was engrossed with the baby, and trembling. Estelle simpered, “Why, I do believe the little darling looks like my Norman! Yes, the same—”
Allan turned on her so suddenly that he staggered for a moment. His dark face became livid. He cried, “And may God forgive you for the lie you have said, woman! The wicked, wicked lie it is. …”
Cornelia swore emphatically under her breath. She caught Allan’s arm in a firm grip, a thin tense arm under the black sleeve. “Now, now, dear, Estelle only meant something very nice. You’ve frightened her. You fool,” she added in a whisper. She smiled brightly at her daughter’s smooth and expressionless face, at Richard’s quiet eyes, at Estelle, shrinking with elaborate and affected fear from Allan’s vicinity. The nurse stared enraptured, and thought of the servants’ hall where she could tell this incredible story about the “heathen” Americans and their ill-bred ways. “And I assure you, Sally, I heard that Mrs. Marshall swear like a hussar, and her husband—drunk as a lord! And little Mrs. deWitt looking all gone, that she did, and his lordship so gentle and kind.”
Somehow, Allan found himself in his rooms, with the valet in attendance, and Cornelia leaning against the polished mahogany door and expressing herself without reticence. “I don’t know why you have to be such a damnable boor after you drink too much,” she said.
“You’ll never know, Cornelia, why I drink too much, as you say,” Allan had replied in a voice so faint that he was barely audible. Then he became excited again: “That cursed woman—Norman—that child—my grandson. …”
“Oh, shut up,” said Cornelia, beginning to laugh. “You’re a fool, my darling. I wonder what these people are thinking of you now? However, who cares? We’re the monstrously rich deWitts and Marshalls, and I never saw even an aristocrat pale with disgust at the thought of money. However, I only hope to God that they merely think you eccentric. Estelle is doubtlessly explaining to everybody that you’re Irish, and that will settle things in their minds. Don’t tug at your tie like that; you’ll strangle. By the way, do you know I think that Dicky would have married Dolores without the money? He actually loves the poor cold thing. Funny, isn’t it? Do go to bed, and I’ll trip downstairs and try to cover things up for you.”
She had blown him a gay kiss and had gone. He had permitted the valet to undress him. He had found his box of sedatives and had taken three pills. Then he was in bed, with the low light beside him, and he was alone. He had turned out the light and had lain on his pillows and had begun to think.
The thoughts were familiar, and sharp, in spite of all the whisky and wine. Cornelia. How long ago had she begun to look at him with the rounded eyes and the rounded mouth of mockery? How long had she indulged him, drawing him away not only from guests and hosts, and taking him home, but drawing him away from board meetings with light words, smiles, and winks at the directors? How long had she been treating him as an irresponsible person, and how long had she been inviting others so to treat him? For several years, at least. And was this the reason that his directors listened to him more and more impatiently, or exchanged amused glances, and later consulted Cornelia in private? Who was imparting the suggestion that he was a fool, a bad-tempered, excitable fool, sometimes talking incoherently? Cornelia.
But why? He had the power. He was the president of the Interstate Railroad Company. By incredible work and effort he had prevented the road from suffering too much during the Panic of 1907. The company owned his four exclusive patents, about which authorities had written numerous books. The wealth of the company had doubled since 1900, when he had relieved Rufus deWitt of practically all responsibility. He had given all his heart and mind and energy and inventiveness to the company. He had been regarded with majestic respect by the presidents of other roads. Even the president of the New York Central and the Pennsylvania had conceded that Allan was a “railroader” in the greatest tradition, a genius. He had averted strikes on his own road when other railroads were paralyzed by them. The railroad Brotherhoods spoke of him with affection, while they spoke of other roads with sullen rage. All this he had done, in spite of “the drink,” in spite of his innate fear and moments of terror and uncertainty. Why, then, did Cornelia treat him as an unpredictable and dullwitted child, and why had she, during these past years, attempted to impart this opinion—which he did not believe she actually held—to others?
Envy.
But I am her husband, I am her father’s heir, and she loves me.
It is power that Cornelia wants, thought Allan in the darkness. She cannot, as a woman, be president of the company. But she wishes others to believe that she is the real power behind the apparent power. How can she do that to me, she who loves me, my wife?
He lay there and felt utterly abanoned and alone and betrayed. He turned on his pillows and sighed groaningly. He began to doze. It was then that he had had the nightmare which had awakened him.
And now he was sitting in this great dank bedroom, drinking desperately, while the sea, coming alive, blew its restless voice against the leaded windows and the moon sank in the black sky. Allan muttered, huddled in his quilt, “Lord have mercy upon us, Christ have mercy upon us. …” He was startled into silence. He had not spoken voluntarily. His eyes began to sting, and he thought of his son Tony, and he put his forehead on his hand and did not resist the awful despair that swept over him. What have I been looking for all my life? he asked himself. I don’t know what it is. I only know I am defeated.
The whisky could not calm him. He fumbled to his feet and went to the windows again, throwing wide the casements to the wild and perfumed air of very early morning. He looked to the east; the sea still ran in darkness, but upon it stood broken mountains of dull fire, and the sky above the cloudmountains tumbled in dark green and purple. Light fog rose from the gardens and park below like ghosts twining into nothingness before the threat of the coming sun. An unearthly shadow began to gather in the topmost crests of the great trees, and now the birds broke into vehement song and blew up into the graying light like a tuneful explosion. Doves cooed; thrushes threw their sweet voices to the sky. Larks cried in angelic voices. But the house remained wrapped in entranced silence, except for the murmur of the ivy.
Allan’s eyes were burning, his head aching violently. He began to sweat, in spite of the coolness and freshness of the air. He looked down at the ground, and he saw a slight figure standing there, its face upturned to his. He started, and remembered the stories of specters which were supposed to haunt these old mansions; his Celtic blood stirred and a chill ran along his nerves. Then he heard a low and tentative voice: “Sir? Is it you?” He stammered, “Dick? Why are you up so early?”
“I never went to bed,” replied Lord Gibson-Hamilton. “May I come up to your rooms for a few moments?”
Allan opened his door, sat down, and waited. He looked at the whisky bottle, had a thought to remove it, then shrugged in his awful weariness. Let his son-in-law know the worst, if he wished. He probably did, anyway. In a few moments the younger man came into the room on silent feet, and took a chair opposite Allan. The lamplight made the shadows in the corners of the room more unreal yet more intense. Richard looked at the bottle of whisky and asked softly, “May I?”
“You don’t have to,” said Allan, suspecting profound courtesy.
“But I wish to,” said the ot
her, smiling sadly. He picked up the bottle and, to Allan’s amazement, he drank a long and thirsty drink. Richard held the bottle, then, in his hands, and said, “Sometimes I have to do this. Not very often, you know, but sometimes, especially when I have not been able to sleep.”
Allan did not reply. They regarded each other as if sharing a terrible and mutual secret. Then the young man sighed and put the bottle own. “There are times when life seems impossible,” he said. Again he looked at Allan, and added very gently, “You know, sir, that I love your daughter, and always have?”
“I—I think so,” said Allan.
Richard’s smile was sadder than ever. “Did you know that she doesn’t love me in the least?”
“I suspected that, tonight But why did she marry you, then, Dick? I admit I opposed the marriage. It had nothing to do with you, honestly; it was just that I believed she didn’t want you. Then, all at once, she changed her mind, or something. At that time everything was confused for me,” Allan went on, a little incoherently. ‘Things were pressuring; old Rufus had died; there was so much to do. I’m not the man he was; we had different backgrounds. I, you see, panic sometimes. It’s something I don’t understand, not clearly. So, I was in a panic, though I knew it would always happen. You wouldn’t understand, with your background. My family was poverty-stricken; I got out of the gutter by—efforts—broke me in a way, I suppose. …” I’m talking gibberish, he thought miserably. He can’t understand.
Richard nodded gravely. “Yes, I know. I can’t tell you how much I admire you, and men like you. We don’t have many of your kind in England. Once we did, but not now.” He sighed. “But you were asking me why Dolores suddenly changed her mind and married me. I don’t know. I was so happy at that time, for I’d given up hope of her, and I didn’t question.” His kind and birdlike face was touched with shy light.