Charles opened the pamphlet, and he saw a portrait of the Kaiser in full and resplendent uniform, with a lofty and Wagnerian expression on his face.
“Well, well,” said Charles, puzzled. “Is it our old friend ‘The Modern Defender of the Faith’? Yes, I see he is. One of his lesser roles?” He saw that the pamphlet had been printed in New York. He also saw that the publishing company had an office in London and another in Berlin and still another in Stockholm. He held the pamphlet at a little distance and ran his eye rapidly over a few sentences here and there.
The pamphlet had been written by one Professor Adolf Wittinger, and the professor was evidently a scholar, and one given to stern hero-worship and meticulous research. He outlined the life of the Kaiser since that royal personage had been a very young man. “From the very first His Majesty revealed those noble traits of character necessary for one destined to be a leader of men and to carry out those grave responsibilities which fate, the time and the hour, have laid upon him.”
Charles read a little more, and. was about to lose interest when a sentence caught his eye: “The manifest destiny of the new world lies with those nations cognate with the Reformation of heroic and deathless memory: Germany, the British Empire, and the United States of America. These nations are the heirs of the mighty traditions of Martin Luther; they have inherited his mantle. For, without him, they would never have been born, or would never have reached their majestic stature. The three sisters stand as one—”
“For God’s sake,” said Charles.
Another sentence caught his eye: “… the depraved inheritors of the Latin medieval tradition, the ecclesiastical and feudalistic decadence of Rome …”
Charles read more closely, now. This was no crude and inflammatory denunciation, no barbaric call to riot and to hatred. The periods might be resonant, but they had flow and a dignified tone of reason. It appeared that “the three sisters” who “stand as one” had been called upon by the Most High to follow the Kaiser in a crusade of liberation, “bound as they are by a single tradition, and sharing among them the holiest of all sacraments, the sacrament of an identical blood, the sacrament of one splendid race.”
That blood, and that race, it developed, was the Teutonic. All other races, implied the professor, had been marked for extinction, not only because they were inferior and effete, but because the scientific and evolutionary process had ceased to operate in them.
“Well,” said Charles, “this is an entirely different song from the others I have been hearing. It’s original, anyway.
“It’s part of the pattern. It fits in, somewhere. It has a purpose.” It all returned to the huge and sinister stirring in the dark, to the terrible disease silently attacking the minds of men. Charles came out of his thoughts in time to hear George say to Oliver: “It’s just as we’ve always believed and taught; the scientific materialism that began to rise in the nineteenth century has caught up with us. Herbert Spencer was one of its high priests, with his dogma of ‘scientific’ laws and inexorable ‘evolution.’”
“There is but one God, and His Name is Science, and the Twentieth Century is His prophet,” said Oliver.
“Yes,” said Charles. “It’s all part of the pattern.” He looked at the pamphlet. “They called the nineteenth century ‘the age of enlightenment.’ I think we’re now entering on ‘the age of enslavement.’ There’re so many in it. We might not survive what they’re planning for us.”
The waiter came to take their orders, an ancient waiter who believed that food should not be eaten hastily, but in dignity and in decorum. Charles knew that it would be at least ten minutes before he returned with the first course.
George Hadden lifted his morning paper and unfolded it to a photograph. “Here is one of the boys,” he said. Charles took the paper and he saw the face of a very undistinguished man wearing an expression of complete and detached neutrality. “Herbert Belz,” said George Hadden. “The face that’s everywhere and nowhere. The face that could belong to anybody. The face of dialectic materialism. I’ve heard him, and I’ve read his books, too.”
The face that could belong to anybody. Charles put on his glasses. “I’ve seen him, somewhere,” he said. He looked closer. Then he remembered. This man had been in “old” Harry Hoffman’s Ford that dreadful April day on which Wilhelm had died. He had been going to Roger Brinkwell’s house.
Charles looked at Oliver and George, and he told them. Oliver said: “Yes. It’s part of the pattern, as you’d say, Charlie.”
Charles read aloud a quotation from one of Herbert Belz’ books, which appeared under the photograph: “‘It is only just, and it is inevitable, that eventually the people will demand absolute security from the State.’”
“And absolute security is absolute slavery,” Charles said. “The pattern grows clear and clearer. It doesn’t surprise me now, as it would have a year ago, to know that Belz, the disciple of Marx, Spencer, and Hegel, is a friend, or at least an acquaintance, of Brinkwell’s. Great power and wealth have a common denominator with Socialism. They both detest freedom, and believe in the absolute control of the individual.”
“We must just remember one thing,” said Oliver. “And that is that the safety of America lies in us, our tens of thousands of independent business men, and professional men. Maybe,” he added, with a dry smile, “there’ll be no literal barricades in the streets, but there’ll be ideological ones. I’m ready to man one, myself.”
George ran his hand worriedly over his fine light hair. “There’s already a tendency, in America, towards centralization in Government, and in industry. You can see that in your business, Charlie. The Connington is determined to put you out of the market.”
“They’re trying,” Charles admitted. “But they won’t succeed. Anyway, that’s what I’m hoping. I’m counting a great deal on the skilled men they’re trying to take away from me, with their wages which I couldn’t afford. These men were trained in my shops, and they’re intelligent, and they have pride in their craftsmanship.”
Oliver’s dark face was seriously skeptical. “And you think that they’ll finally decide that it is better to be a man, for less money, than a mere tool, for more? Honestly, Charlie, do you believe that?”
“I’m hoping,” Charles repeated. He glanced around the room; the tables near them were empty. He looked at Mr. Heinz’ table, but the old gentleman had gone. “Heinz told me that when Mr. Wilson was elected in ’12 America had come to the end of an era, the era of personal responsibility, adventurousness, and self-respect. I considered him a gloomy old codger, then. Now I’m not so sure but what he was right. Mr. Wilson talks constantly about ‘social justice.’ He doesn’t seem to understand that social justice exists only when government keeps out of the affairs of the people. He’d like to centralize governmental powers in Washington. But he won’t succeed, or even begin to succeed, unless—”
“Unless there’s a war,” said George.
“That’ll give the men behind him their chance,” added Oliver.
The soup had been eaten, and the braised spareribs and kraut had been brought and partially consumed. Charles noticed that in his absorption he had forgotten that his favorite dish no longer agreed with him. He put down his fork. He furtively felt in his pocket to see if he had his soda-mint tablets with him.
“Old Heinz is a pretty shrewd fellow,” said Charles. “But he’s failing.”
Oliver glanced at George, then said: “No, Charlie, he isn’t failing. He recognized you, all right.”
“What do you mean?”
Oliver leaned towards Charles. “Charlie, I know you’ve had so many things on your mind, but try to think if you’ve noticed that other people besides Mr. Heinz have been avoiding or snubbing you for the past couple of months or so. Or even before that.”
Charles stared at him blankly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then he was alarmed. He continued to stare at Oliver. Those times at Wilhelm’s house, recently, when he had encountered
Phyllis’ friends. Those times when he had thought Mrs. Holt had been bursting to say something to him, and then had turned away in red distress. Come to think of it, two of the members of the Church Board had been coolly nodding to him lately, men whom he had known from childhood. Then he remembered more and more cold faces.
Oliver and George watched him gravely. He frowned; his alarm grew. He took out his bottle of soda-mints and swallowed two tablets, drinking water slowly after them.
“Of course,” he said, “it’s just my imagination, or something. What do you mean?” he demanded.
The two young men were embarrassed. George spoke: “Charlie, you know we are your friends, don’t you?”
“Oh, I see,” said Charles. “That’s always a prelude to some nasty news, or gossip. So, there’s been some talk about me in Andersburg, has there? What about?”
The young Quaker said in real distress: “Charlie, we wouldn’t be saying this to you now but the thing has gotten out of hand. We’ve been hearing these—these things—for months, and ignored them. But now we think it’s reached a point where it’s going to injure you. You, and someone else. This is a small city, Charlie. Scandal can do a lot of harm.”
“Scandal?” Charles was amazed. Then he laughed uncomfortably. “I’ve never done anything scandalous in my life, except on very few occasions, and then it wasn’t in this town. Scandal,” he repeated. “That always implies sexual adventure, to a small city mind. Who am I suspected of seducing, eh?” Now he was less alarmed. He laughed again, more easily.
“Go on, tell me,” he said, with good nature.
“Charlie,” said Oliver, “suppose we drop all this now, and suppose George and I do what Mr. Haas has suggested, trace back to the source. Then we’ll come to you and tell you. But we didn’t want to interfere, without your full knowledge of what we were doing. So you could help us, if necessary.”
Charles studied him. Oliver Prescott was a very levelheaded young feller. He was the best lawyer in Andersburg. He knew how to weigh anything in the balance and discover if it had value. He would never speak of something unless he had good and sufficient reason to speak.
“You’ll have to tell me what the ‘scandal’ is before I can say whether it is worth hunting down,” he said. “After all, gossip is the great human pastime, and no one takes it very seriously. I have friends here, and to my knowledge, I’ve only two enemies.”
“You’re right, to a certain extent, Charlie,” said George, with discomfort. “And you have a lot of friends here, who are all busy defending you.”
“My God, is it as bad as that?” Charles exclaimed in dismay.
“Yes,” said Oliver. “It is. Charlie, I’m a lawyer, and I’ve learned to discount nine-tenths of what I hear. But this thing is getting dangerous. It’s true that you have friends in Andersburg, but even friends are very apt to believe in lies if they’re juicy enough. Take old Heinz; you’ve known him all your life. He hasn’t anything personal against you, and he’s perfectly sound. Yet, he’s believing this thing, as you saw, yourself, today. And without giving you a chance to defend your own good name.”
My city, my home, thought Charles. Why, they’ve known me, most of them, since I was born. They know everything I do, and everything I’ve done. I don’t believe it.
“Tell me,” he said. It was Brinkwell, of course. What was he saying? Was he deprecating Charles’ importance in Andersburg, sneering at the quality of his machine tools, undermining him with innuendo? Of course, that was it. Charles smiled. “Go on. I can see it’s Brinkwell. He’s trying to wreck me. My friends will know that, and so I’m not too concerned.”
“Perhaps it’s Brinkwell, as you say,” said Oliver. “We’ll find out. I’ve had my suspicions that he was in it, too, for a long time. But I also have my suspicions that he’s only repeating what someone else has told him.”
He paused, then said with real misery: “Charlie, can’t you persuade your sister-in-law to go away for a few months?”
Again, Charles was blank. “My sister-in-law? I have two. Isabel? Phyllis?” Then he remembered that Mrs. Holt had been pleading with Phyllis to go away, for “a nice long rest.” He remembered the urgent note in Mrs. Holt’s voice. His face, always so pale and drained lately, flushed deeply. “Phyllis?” he repeated.
“Yes,” said Oliver.
There was that damned spasm in his stomach again, and a deep sick burning.
“They’re talking about Phyllis—and me?” he said.
Oliver moved uncomfortably. He looked down at his hands, which played with a coffee spoon. “Yes,” he said.
Phyllis! It was incredible. It was loathsome. But no one would believe it. Everyone knew Phyllis. Phyllis!
“I don’t believe it,” said Charles. He shook his head. “I don’t believe it.” He lifted his glass of water and drank unsteadily. “Our friends wouldn’t believe anything that foul of Phyllis—”
“And you,” George added, wretchedly.
Charles put down his glass, slowly. “What are they saying?” he asked, and now there was a white line about his mouth.
Oliver hesitated. “That you—that you and Mrs. Wittmann have been having an affair for a long time, for at least a year. I’m sorry, Charlie.”
“A year?” cried Charles, aghast. “Even while Willie was alive?” He was horrified. “My God! But Willie never knew about these lies!” Then he stopped abruptly. He was remembering the hour before Wilhelm had fallen on the stairs. Wilhelm had asked him to come into the gallery for a talk. He, Charles, and Phyllis, had been convinced that Jochen had been poisoning Wilhelm’s mind and they had spoken to Wilhelm before the latter could speak, himself. They had taken it for granted that Jochen had been alienating Wilhelm from Charles in a purely business way, and for purely financial reasons in connection with Brinkwell. Charles, turning paler and paler, was remembering those long months of estrangement, his brother’s bitter aversion for him, his look of grief and despair, his flights with Phyllis from Andersburg.
Willie had heard the lies, and he had believed them. That was unendurable to Charles. Willie had suffered agonies. Charles was remembering how ill Wilhelm had looked, how broken. He was remembering his brother, leaning against the gallery wall, with his head fallen on his chest. All the time when he, Charles, had been believing he had reached his brother with the story of Jochen’s plots with Brinkwell, he had only been dispelling Wilhelm’s suspicion that he and Phyllis—
Charles stood up. He put his hands on the table, and leaned on them. “Willie knew,” he said. “He’d been lied to. He’d been made to suffer.”
The two young men stood up also, in consternation. Oliver put his hand on Charles’ arm. “Charlie, don’t look like that,” he said. “Charlie. We’ll find out who started all this.”
“Charlie,” pleaded George, deeply alarmed.
But Charles did not hear them. He stared down at the table. “All those months,” he said. “He was suffering like hell. And then, he died.”
Only about eight or ten diners remained in the room, and these were at a distance. But they were looking at the three men with curiosity. They could not hear what was being said. They saw Charles standing there, however, half-bent over the table, in an attitude of blunt agony, and they saw the younger men trying to shield him from their eyes.
“Let’s get out of here,” urged Oliver. “Come to my office, Charlie, and you, too, George. We’ll map out our plans, we’ll find out—”
Charles heard him. He straightened. “No,” he said. “We don’t have to ‘find out’ anything. It was my brother Joe.” He looked at them. “I know how to deal with this, myself, believe me.”
He turned and walked away, and his legs bent a little, weakly, once or twice.
CHAPTER XXXIX
The sun pressed heavily on Charles’ head and shoulders as he walked back to his office. It seemed to have an iron heat, so that there was a scorched sensation in his throat, a burning in his chest. Charles stared before him, and ther
e was nothing in him but hatred, and a hunger for vengeance so intense that he knew what it was to feel the overpowering urge to kill.
He has brought me to this—Joe, he thought. He is my brother, and I not only want to kill him but feel that I must. Think what he did to Willie! All those months. Willie, who had never harmed him. Willie, with his pictures and his books and his marble busts, and his sharp, fastidious gestures, and his sudden thin humor—and his innocence! Willie, a young man, murdered as surely by Joe as if Joe had shot or strangled him. There was something floating about, hazily and half-guessed, in Charles’ mind. Willie had fallen on the stairs; he had begun to hurry; he had said something. He had slipped. Yet Charles knew, in some way, that Wilhelm had been killed, that if what he had been told by Jochen had never been told Wilhelm would be alive, today.
Charles stepped from the curb, unseeing, and was almost run down by a brewer’s wagon. He stepped back, and stood there on the crowded curb, panting. Phyllis. They had done this to Phyllis, also. They were so determined to have their way, to ruin him, Charles, that they had murdered Wilhelm, they had heaped slime on Phyllis. He had been too stunned to feel much when Wilhelm had been buried; he had been shaken by grief later. Nothing, however, could compare with this awful sorrow he felt now, this crushed mourning.
Someone spoke to him; he could not stop. He was walking in a nightmare; he pulled his arm furiously from the hand which had touched it, and went on. Now his hatred was like something mad. His friends! He had lived in this city all his life, fatly, stupidly, complacently, and he had thought he had friends! Yet his friends, without any proof, without any sign from him or from Phyllis, had believed this intolerable thing of him. God damn them, thought Charles, and his mind began to clear. Heinz, Stollmann, Wurlitzer—all of them, dozens of them. He saw their averted faces, their eyes filmed over with hostility. Why, a man had no friends, not ever, in all the world! A man smugly prided himself on his neighbors, on their loyalty, their kindness, their generosity, their belief in him, and all the time they were enemies, waiting to fall on him and tear him apart and strike him down, if they could.