Balance Wheel

Geraldine did not answer. Jimmy and Charles exchanged a glance of concern and understanding. Jimmy said: “They push you, when you get so far. In school. Don’t worry, Gerry. Summer will soon be here.”

  Charles was conscious of his slow and rising anger. This poor child. He understood what her parents were doing to her. He had never hated Jochen very often, and then only in passing, and almost tolerantly. But now he hated his brother with real strength.

  “Things push, Gerry,” he said, and leaned over to touch her arm lightly. Its thinness frightened him. “As Jimmy says, don’t worry. You just have to keep your head.”

  The firelight and gaslight glimmered on her rich, crimson velvet dress, and the white lace collar. Charles could see the tenseness in the cords under the fine dark skin of her neck. She would not speak. Charles understood she could not say what she wanted to say, and he respected the child for it.

  Then Geraldine lifted her head and looked at her cousin. “Jimmy,” she said.

  “Yes, Gerry. I know all about it,” replied the boy. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Geraldine drew in a deep breath. “I’m so glad you’re better, Jimmy. And you’ll be going back to school.”

  “And there’s that place where we have hot chocolate after school,” said Jimmy. “Hope you’ve missed me not being there, Gerry.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. And now she was smiling, the most piteous smile.

  “I’ll meet you there tomorrow afternoon,” said Jimmy. “At three, as usual.”

  She nodded. She was very close to crying. Charles stood up. He said, heartily: “Well, if I’m going to see your uncle, children, I’ll have to go now. Will you be here for supper when I come back, Gerry?”

  She turned to him, jerkily. “I can’t, Uncle Charlie.” Her lips shook. “You see, I’m just on my way home from seeing Doris Sidney. I had dinner at her house. I—I promised to be home before Mama and Papa went to—to the Brinkwells. And it’s getting late as it is. If I’m not home right away they’ll begin to call the Sidneys, and—”

  Charles stood beside her. He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Well, stay a few minutes with Jimmy, dear.”

  He went out and shut the door behind him. He fumbled in the semi-dark for his coat and hat. He tried to think of the short walk to the livery stable where he kept his horse and modest carriage in the winter. But he could only think of Jochen and Isabel. So, they wanted Kenneth Brinkwell for this child, did they?

  In the parlor, Geraldine was crying, and Jimmy was sitting close beside her and holding her hand and wiping her tears awkwardly with her scrap of a handkerchief.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  It was extremely unpleasant to be out this cold wintry afternoon, with the carriage wheels slipping on the rising icy roads, and the last of the sun a brazen lake over the opposite mountains, which were as black as coal. But at least it was not snowing here. However, Charles began to feel resentment that he should be out today. He knew this was irrational; he knew that he had only to call Wilhelm, and to explain that the day was too bad for visiting.

  In his resentment, it seemed to him that his brothers were becoming more and more unbearable, that it was asking too much of him to stand them much longer. But his logical mind reproached him by reminding him that he was not so much provoked by his brothers as he was desperate, and knew that he could do nothing about his despair.

  He was informed, while being relieved of his hat and coat, that Mr. and Mrs. Wittmann were in the music room. He walked there, slowly, scowling. He could hear the faint strains of music being played superbly. Chopin? Mozart? Debussy? He did not care. He just disliked it. He would be “banal,” this evening, and ask Phyllis to play the hymn to the evening star, from Tannhäuser, and Willie be damned. He disliked everything, even this house, just now. He looked at the steep marble staircase rising to the dim upper story and hoped that one of these days Willie would break his neck—or at least his ankle—on those stairs. It was a wonder someone hadn’t done that before.

  He was much annoyed to find Wilhelm in a puce-and-gold dressing-gown, sitting before a neat fire, with a purple afghan over his knees. Such damn nonsense. The man had gotten over his attack of la grippe weeks ago. Yet, there he sat, so elegantly, a folded white handkerchief in the pocket of his dressing-gown, and coughing fastidiously. Phyllis was at the piano, in a white woolen frock, while her husband listened with all the absorbed seriousness of a sensitive critic, his slight fingers beating time on the carved arm of the chair.

  “Well,” Charles said, coming into the room. Wilhelm turned his head with a vexed expression, and Charles sat down until Phyllis had finished. The beautiful notes rose and fell like drops of bright frozen water in the exquisite room. Charles, as usual, tried to find what he called a “theme” in the music, but it seemed all erratic sound to him, and his nervousness increased.

  Wilhelm sat there, precise and egotistical, his head tilted, listening. One had to admire his air of aristocracy. Charles tried to admire it. But again, his resentment returned to him. He was certainly losing control of himself, he thought. It ought not to matter to him that Wilhelm knew nothing, nothing at all, of what was happening in the world.

  Charles knew he was sitting in his chair very lumpily, and growing very “solid” with each moment. He wanted Wilhelm to feel this. Then he saw that Wilhelm was not looking at him; there was something too obvious in his absorption, too evasive. Charles grunted under his breath.

  Phyllis came to him, smiling faintly, and gave him a glass of sherry. She had not given him sherry since last August; she had given him whiskey and soda, even in the face of Wilhelm’s light disapproval.

  Wilhelm made the first remark, and it was testy. “How is Jimmy?”

  “He goes back to his school tomorrow,” said Charles, looking with gloom at the sherry.

  “Good,” said Wilhelm. He glanced at Phyllis: “Is the tea hot, my dear? You know how I detest lukewarm tea.” He said to Charles: “You’ve had a very bad time, I know. Fortunately, you did not get that abominable illness, yourself.”

  Charles was about to say: “I didn’t have the time.” But he stopped the words before he could speak them. Phyllis was sitting near Wilhelm; she was drawing up the afghan; Wilhelm glanced at her fondly, gave his affected cough. “Isn’t there a draft, Phyllis?” he asked. “I’m certain I feel one on the back of my neck. La grippe leaves one in a debilitated condition.” He sipped his tea, tasting it with the concentration of a connoisseur. “I have this jasmine tea especially imported,” he informed Charles. “A pity you don’t like it.”

  The sweet odor of the hot beverage pervaded the room. Perfumed tea, thought Charles, fuming. “I never liked tea,” he could not help saying. The winter wind boomed around the house, and the fire flared.

  Wilhelm continued to sip as if Charles had made a faux pas of the worst kind, and it was only charitable to ignore it. He said: “I’m glad that Jimmy is better. Now Phyllis can stay home instead of running about in the snow and cold. I sometimes felt quite neglected.” He smiled at Phyllis, and his narrow face became gentle. She put her hand over his, and he took it. This affectionate exchange often happened when Charles was present, and it had always touched him. It did not touch him now. He did not know, or would not allow himself to know, why he was suddenly so outraged, and so desolated. He stood up, abruptly, and looked down into the fire.

  “And, thank God,” said Wilhelm, lifting Phyllis’ hand to his lips, and then releasing it, “that detestable woman, Isabel, won’t be calling almost every day, asking for Phyllis. She knew very well that Phyllis was with you and Jimmy, yet she was always surprised. But then, she was never anything else but a fool and a scatterbrain.”

  Charles stood very still on the hearth. The log fell apart in a blaze of brilliant gold. Phyllis said: “She was probably very busy, and never remembered.”

  “It was most annoying,” said Wilhelm, petulantly. “I always disliked her, and I am sure I never concealed my dislike. I couldn’t understand why she was
so solicitous about me all at once.”

  Charles said: “But Isabel, as Phyllis says, is so busy these days. She has so many social engagements.”

  “‘Social engagements,’” scoffed Wilhelm. “Who are Jochen’s and her friends? Nobodies. Vulgar bourgeois, like themselves. Come now, Charles, don’t be so grim. You know you agree with me.”

  Charles continued to look at the fire, while Wilhelm watched him curiously. What was wrong with old Charles? Of course, he disliked Jochen and Isabel, but surely he did not hate them? One did not hate one’s relatives. It was plebeian. Again, Wilhelm coughed.

  He said: “I don’t suppose you had time to look at that book about Gauguin, Charles? Very good reproductions, there. No one appreciates the Impressionist painters these days. But the time will come, and it won’t be long, I assure you, when Van Gogh and Picasso and Gauguin will be given their due.”

  Charles had completely forgotten the book about Gauguin. He could not even remember what he had done with it, after Phyllis had brought it to him. He was too disturbed to think of any lie which would placate his brother. One turbulent thought replaced another in his mind. He was not used to turbulent thinking. “Have you thought out the design for the Wittmann Civic Park, Wilhelm?”

  Wilhelm smiled and put down his tea-cup. “While I was in bed, and convalescing, I drew up a complete plan. Within a week or two I’ll turn it over to the landscape gardeners I have personally selected. It will be a small park, as parks go, but I assure you it will be in the most excellent taste. My only fear is that the populace might injure it. Too bad it can’t be a private park.”

  He added, peevishly: “There are parks in London, and even in New York, which one can enter only by keys belonging to selected people. A most sensible idea.” He became irascible. “I can just see the hordes trampling the grass, the perfect paths, lumbering through the flower-beds, defacing the grottoes. Yes, it is too bad, indeed.”

  “There will be caretakers,” said Phyllis.

  But Charles was thinking. It was getting dark. He must soon leave. He said: “We’ll have to help keep up the park. Think of the people the Connington Steel Company will be bringing into Andersburg. But then, as everyone says, the mill will also bring prosperity to the city, and God knows we need a little prosperity. We are the only company still in the black, here, even if I have refused to lease or sell some of my patents to the Bouchards.”

  Wilhelm nodded. “Very wise of you, of course, Charles. We’ll make more in the long run by keeping the patents to ourselves. Jochen has been badgering me, lately, on the telephone, about what he calls your ‘obduracy.’ But he is all for the quick profit.”

  Charles turned to him, slowly. “I’m sorry, in a way, that the Connington is coming here. I’m sorry the Brinkwells are here. I hate Brinkwell. And I think, when you met him, that you didn’t like him, either.”

  “Detested him,” agreed Wilhelm, nodding again. He was being as amiable as possible, but Charles felt that his brother was evading him, that he wanted him to leave. Wilhelm said: “Mrs. Brinkwell called a few times, to inquire about my health. I did not talk to her personally. And Phyllis, I believe, has refused her invitations, pleading my illness.” He listened to the roar of the mountain wind. “Dreadful weather. I’m very glad you could visit me today, Charles, but I do think you should be thinking of returning home.”

  Charles said, quietly: “Gerry came to see Jimmy today. She wasn’t permitted to do it, until now. And I have an idea Joe and Isabel don’t know, though the girl didn’t mention it.”

  “What?” said Wilhelm. “I can’t believe it. I always understood, from Jochen, that he hoped there would be a match, there.”

  Charles looked at his brother. “Yes,” he said. “The girl certainly resembles you amazingly, Wilhelm.” Wilhelm smiled. Charles went on: “Joe always did have the idea of a ‘match,’ as you say. But not since the Brinkwells came. They have a son, you know.”

  “That flabby, colorless young feller?” asked Wilhelm, incredulously.

  Phyllis said, as quietly as Charles: “But the Brinkwells have so much money, and they bought that awful Wilcox house, Wilhelm.”

  Wilhelm was most indignant. “That Wilcox house! I knew it well. An atrocity. I was there only once, when the Wilcoxes owned it, and it revolted me. Such loathsome taste, such crassness. Yes, I know the Brinkwells bought it, and are living in it, of course. It is just like them.”

  “I think so, too,” Charles smiled. “Well, they have the Wilcox house, and their Gobelins. And they have their son. Joe and Isabel are pushing Gerry at him. The child is very wretched, Wilhelm. I don’t know why I discuss the matter with you, but she resembles you so much that it’s almost as if you were her father.”

  “Such a lovely, dignified little thing,” said Phyllis, sadly.

  “And, as you’ve said, they’re intrinsically vulgar people.” Charles began to laugh. “You won’t believe it,” Charles continued, “but the Brinkwells have been suggesting the most ridiculous thing to Joe and Isabel. They’ve given them the idea of adding a ‘von’ to our name!”

  Wilhelm colored. He looked at his empty tea-cup. Phyllis refilled it. He watched her do this.

  Charles turned to look up at his father’s portrait. “I wonder what Dad would have thought of that?” he said. “Dad was proud of his name. Yet the Brinkwells, who are such friends of Joe’s and Isabel’s, are trying to make them ashamed of an honest and upright name—a good name.”

  “Impossible!” exclaimed Phyllis. Wilhelm frowned at her. He coughed feebly. His color remained high.

  “I think it outrageous that people like the Brinkwells should interfere with our family name, and should imply that it’s ordinary, or something,” said Charles. “But then, Joe has never had any pride. He doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

  He laughed again. “I’ll have to tell this to Minnie Holt. It’ll be all over Andersburg in no time, and I can just hear everybody laughing at us.”

  He watched Wilhelm closely, out of the corner of his eye. Wilhelm von Wittmann. Yes. Charles felt himself losing his temper. “If it goes any further, I’ll tell Minnie. It’s too good to keep.”

  Wilhelm, Charles saw, was extremely perturbed. Braydon would be disgusted; he had indicated to Wilhelm that he did not believe that Roger Brinkwell was truly a collector at heart. The Brinkwells! Wilhelm was thinking. So, they were behind this, were they?

  He sipped his tea. It was hard to relinquish something which had appealed to him so immensely. But it would be harder to endure ridicule. Wilhelm turned quite pale.

  Wilhelm said: “If Jochen becomes Jochen von Wittmann, then he’ll be a ‘von’ all by himself. I never heard anything so absurd.”

  Now he was very angry. He forgot that he had looked quite benignly on the idea when Jochen suggested it to him.

  “Stupid. Repugnant,” he said. “But, something like that would naturally occur to Jochen. Still, I think perhaps it is Isabel’s doing. Jochen has a measure of good sense.”

  Charles nodded, seriously. “I think you are right, Wilhelm. The Brinkwells, and Isabel.” He turned from the fire.

  He held out his hand to Phyllis, and she smiled at him. “I’m so glad you found out in time, Charles,” she said. “But it’s unfortunate that poor Wilhelm should be so annoyed just when he is getting well.”

  Wilhelm was indeed excessively annoyed. When Charles had gone he said to Phyllis: “Jochen did mention it to me two or three weeks ago, when you were visiting Jimmy, my dear. I didn’t take him seriously. Will you call Jochen’s home, Phyllis, and see if he is there? I must talk to him before another day has gone by.”

  Jochen and Isabel were still at home, though preparing to leave. Jochen listened in silence to Wilhelm’s dignified if angry remarks. Then he said: “Charlie been there this afternoon? I thought so. Fred told him, I suppose. I saw Fred go into his office a few days ago.”

  “What has that to do with it?” demanded Wilhelm, coldly.

  “Not
hing. Except that old Charlie’s succeeded in wangling you again.”

  “Nonsense. He has just made me see how absurd the idea is. If I had not been so ill, Jochen, I would have refused the very moment you spoke of it”

  Jochen laughed coarsely. “All right, Willie. Go on and play sheep to Charlie’s Little Boy Blue. He never fails with you, does he?”

  Wilhelm returned to Phyllis. He coughed very hard. She covered his knees with the afghan. “There are times, Phyllis,” he informed her, “when I am forced to believe that Jochen has no intelligence at all.”

  Phyllis kissed him, very gently. “I don’t know what Charles would do without you, darling,” she said, for she saw that Wilhelm was secretly very resentful against Charles, also. “He relies on you so.”

  Wilhelm considered this. Then he said, pettishly: “I don’t know. Charles is a very subtle man, Phyllis. At times, he is even crafty. I don’t always trust him. I don’t know why I should have such brothers, I really don’t.”

  For no reason he knew of, he thought of Isabel again, and her suave voice apologizing to him for not remembering that Phyllis was with Charles and his son. “So stupid of me,” she had said, not once, but several times. “But I knew you were ill, too, Wilhelm.”

  Wilhelm said now, to his wife: “I don’t know. I have exasperating relatives. That Isabel.” He twitched at the afghan discontentedly. He hoped he was not to have a relapse; there was such an uneasiness and heat in him.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Charles always thought March a most detestable month. There were some, he supposed, who claimed to hear “the bells of spring” in March. He heard only furious blizards, the whine of gales in cold black trees, the howling in the chimneys of his house. The look of the black-and-white mountains depressed him; the heavy gray sky lowering over them always lowered over his spirits, too. A man who liked movement in the streets and an air of briskness about shops, he abhorred long cold vistas filled with nothing but wind, the brick corners of buildings jutting bleakly over empty pavements, shop-windows reflecting only opposite shop-windows. Sometimes he went into his snow-heaped garden to look hopefully at beds where crocuses were planted. He was always disappointed; it would be at least a week or two more. He examined the twigs of maples and elms. Stiff, small, hard. If anything was happening in those woody nibs he could not feel or see it. He supposed there was, but he was a man who needed evidence.