IV
So Esther was standing at the top of the white-paneled staircase with the grandfather’s clock behind her. She was tall and rather slender; she held herself erect, and was quiet and grave in manner. She had straight brown hair, drawn back from a high forehead in defiance of fashion’s edicts. Her nose was a little too long and thin, but the rest of her features were regular and her smile kindly. Her brown eyes appraised Lanny, and she kissed him on the cheek. She had made up her just mind that she was going to treat him exactly like her own children, and Robbie had told Lanny that he was to call her “Mother.”
She took him into her sitting room to get acquainted. He liked to talk, and was eager and friendly about it. He had been on a steamship which had been in peril of the submarines; he told how the passengers had behaved when they had struck a floating ice cake. He had been in London when it was bombed, and had a bit of shrapnel which had come through the window of a hotel room. (Of course he didn’t say who had been in that room with him.) Esther, listening and watching, decided that he was intelligent, and if anything went wrong it could be explained to him. The load upon her mind grew lighter.
She took him to his room, which was in the rear. It was small, but had its own bath, and was alongside the rooms of her two boys. The walls were of pale blue, and the blankets on the single bed were the same. The rug in front of it was made by winding a long soft rope of braided rags into a spiral; his new mother explained that this was a “round-rug,” and was an antique. She showed him the “highboy” in which he was to keep his shirts and such belongings. Esther knew the story of each old piece of furniture, which she had “picked up” on trips here and there in the country. Each of these adventures was important to her. As an art lover, Lanny could see that the pieces were well proportioned, and they must have been well made to be in use after a hundred years.
Outside it was warm, and the window of the room was open. There was a cherry tree close by, getting ready to bloom. A bird was singing in it with extraordinary vigor, and Lanny commented on this. Esther said it was a mocking-bird which came every season, and had arrived only a few days ago; not many of them reached New England. Lanny told about the nightingale which made its nest in the court at Bienvenu, and was treated as a member of the family. He had tried to write out all the notes it had sung, and now he would do the same for the mocking-bird. His new mother said this task would keep him busy. The mocking-bird said: “Kerchy, kerchy, kerchy, kerchy.” Then it stopped and caught its breath and said: “You pay. You pay. You pay.”
V
For months thereafter one of Lanny’s adventures would be meeting his relatives. First came his two half-brothers, who attended a private school in town, and were taken every morning and called for in the afternoon. Robert junior was twelve, and Percy eleven; they were handsome boys, who knew how to move quietly about a well-ordered home. Of course they were curious about this new arrival from foreign parts. They took him out at once to show him their Belgian hares; also Prince, their fine German shepherd dog, which they called a “police dog,” and which Lanny knew as an “Alsatian.” Prince was formally introduced, and looked the newcomer over warily, smelled him thoroughly, and finally wagged his tail. That was important.
Then came Bess, who was nine; her school was near by, but she had a singing lesson that afternoon, and the chauffeur went for her after he had brought the boys. Bess was like her mother, tall for her years and slender, with the same thin nose and sober brown eyes. But she had not yet learned restraint; eagerness transformed her features. When she heard that Lanny had been where the submarines were she cried: “Oh, tell us about it!” She hung on every word, and Lanny found himself a young Marco Polo. “Oh, what did you do?” And: “What did you say?” And: “Weren’t you dreadfully frightened?”
Lanny relived his own childhood through this half-sister. She asked him questions about his home and what he did there; about the war and the people he knew who had been in it; about the Christmas-card castle in Germany; about Greece, and the ruins, of which there were pictures in her school; about England, and the boat race, and the poor girl who hadn’t had enough to eat, and the aviator who at this moment might be up in the air shooting at German planes with a machine gun—was it made by Budd’s?
Not one detail escaped her; she would prove it if he left anything out the next time he told the story. And the teller became her hero, her idol; it was a case of love at first sight. He played the piano for her, he showed her how to dance “Dalcroze,” and taught her the words of old songs. He made the French language come alive for her. The hour in the distant future when Bessie Budd first had to admit that this wonderful half-brother of hers was anything less than perfect would mark one of the tragedies of her stormy life.
VI
Comically different was Lanny’s first meeting with his grandfather, Samuel Budd, which took place by appointment on the second evening after his arrival. Robbie escorted him to the old gentleman’s home; impossible to subject a youth to such an ordeal alone. On the way the father told him what to do; not to talk too much, but to answer questions politely, and listen attentively. “It would have been better for me if I had always followed those rules,” he said, with a trace of bitterness.
Robbie was driving and they were alone; so he could speak frankly, and it was time to do so. “People are what circumstances have made them, and they don’t change very much after they are grown. Your grandfather is a stubborn person, as much so as the bricks of which his house is built, and you might as well butt your head against one as the other.”
“I don’t want to butt him,” said the boy, both amused and worried. “Tell me exactly what to do.”
“Well, the first thing is to get clear that you are the fruit of sin.”
From this remark Lanny realized that the quarrel which had wrecked his mother’s life and separated him from his father was still going on, and that the wounds of it were festering in Robbie’s heart. “Surely,” the youth protested, “he can’t blame me for what happened then!”
“He will tell you about visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation.”
“Who says that, Robbie?”
“It’s somewhere in the Old Testament.”
Lanny thought and then asked: “Just what does he want me to do?”
“He’ll tell you that himself. All you have to do is to listen.”
Another pause. Finally the son was moved to say: “I suppose he didn’t want me to come to Newcastle?”
“He has agreed to accept you as one of his grandsons. And I think it is important that he should be made to do it.”
“Well, whatever you say. I want to please you. But if you’re doing it for my sake, you don’t have to.”
“I’m doing it for my own,” said the other, grimly.
“It’s been so many years, Robbie. Doesn’t that count with him at all?”
“In the sight of the Lord a thousand years are as a day.”
Most of the persons Lanny had met in his young life never said anything about the Lord, except as a metaphor or an expletive. Several had said in his hearing that they didn’t believe any such Being existed. But now the thought came to Lanny that his father differed from these persons. Robbie believed that the Lord existed, and he didn’t like Him.
VII
The president of Budd Gunmakers Corporation had been born in a red brick mansion on the residence boulevard which skirted the edge of Newcastle. He had lived in it all his life, and meant to die in it, regardless of automobiles, country clubs, and other changes of fashion. His butler had been his father’s butler, and wasn’t going to be changed, even though he was becoming tottery. There were electric lights in the house, but they were hung in old chandeliers. The hand-carved French walnut bookcases were oiled and polished until they shone, and behind their glass doors Lanny caught glimpses of books which he would have liked to examine. He knew this was a very old mansion, and that political as well as bus
iness history had been made in it; but it seemed strangely ugly and depressing.
The master was in his study, the ancient butler said, and Robbie led his son at once to the room. At a desk absorbed in some papers sat a man of seventy, solidly built and heavy, as if he did not exercise; partly bald, and having a considerable tuft of whitish gray hair underneath his chin, a style which Lanny had never seen before. He wore gold spectacles, and had creases between his heavy gray eyebrows, which gave him a stern expression, cultivated perhaps for business purposes. From his desk it appeared that he had carried home with him the burden of winning a war.
“Well, young man?” he said, looking up. He did not rise, and apparently didn’t plan even to shake hands.
But to Lanny it seemed that a gentleman ought to shake hands with his grandfather when he met him for the first time; so he went straight to the desk and held out his hand, forcing the other to take it. “How do you do, Grandfather?” he said; and as the answer appeared to come slowly he went on: “I have heard a great deal about you, and I’m happy to meet you at last.”
“Thank you,” said the old gentleman, surprised by this cordiality.
“Everybody has been most kind to me, Grandfather,” continued Lanny, as if he thought his progenitor might be worrying about it.
“I am glad,” said the other.
Lanny waited, and so did the old man; they gazed at each other, a sort of duel of eyes. Robbie had told him not to talk; but something came to Lanny suddenly, a sort of inspiration. This old munitions maker wasn’t happy. He had to live in an ugly old house and be burdened day and night with cares. He had an enormous lot of power which other people were trying to get away from him, and that made him suspicious, it forced him to be hard. But he wasn’t hard; underneath he was kind, and all you had to do was to be kind to him, and not ask anything from him.
Lanny decided to follow that hunch. “Grandfather,” he announced, “I think I am going to like America very much. I liked England, and I’ve been surprised to find everything here so much like England.”
“Indeed, young man?”
“The best part of England, I mean. I hope I shan’t see anything like their terrible slums.”
The elderly industrialist rose to the bait. “Our working people are getting double wages now. You will see them wearing silk socks and shirts, and buying themselves cars on the installment plan. They will soon be our masters.”
“I was told the same thing in England, sir. People complain about the taxes there. The owners of the great estates say that they are going to have to break them up. Do you think that will happen in this country?”
“Apparently we plan to finance our share of the war by means of loans,” replied the president of Budd’s. “It is a dangerous procedure.”
“M. Zaharoff talked about that. He doesn’t seem to object to war loans of any size. Maybe it is because he is getting so large a share of the proceeds.”
“Ahem! Yes,” said the grandfather. “I am happy to say that Budd’s have not conducted their affairs on the same fly-by-night basis as Zaharoff.”
The art of conversation is highly esteemed in France, and Lanny had acquired it. He had heard the worldly-wise Baroness de la Tourette declare that the one certain way to interest a man Was to get him to talking about his own affairs. A beginning having been made in this case, Lanny went on to remark: “I find that Budd’s have a very good reputation abroad, sir.”
“Humph! They want our products just now.”
“Yes, sir; but I mean with persons who are disinterested.”
“Who, for example?”
“Well, M. Rochambeau. He spent a good part of his life in the Swiss diplomatic service, so he’s very well informed. He has been most helpful to me during the two and a half years that I haven’t been seeing Robbie. Anything I didn’t understand about world affairs he was always kind enough to explain to me.”
“You were fortunate.”
“Yes, Grandfather. Before that there was M. Priedieu, the librarian at Mrs. Chattersworth’s château. He helped to form my literary taste.”
“What books did he give you, may I ask?”
“Stendhal and Montaigne, Corneille and Racine, and of course Molière.”
“All French writers,” said the deacon of the First Congregational Church. “May I inquire whether any of your advisers ever mentioned a book called the Bible?”
“Oh, yes, sir. M. Rochambeau told me that I should study the New Testament. I had some difficulty in finding a copy on the Riviera.”
“Did you read it?”
“Every word of it, sir.”
“And what did you get out of it?”
“It moved me deeply; in fact it made me cry, four different times. You know it tells the same story four times over.”
“I am aware of it,” said the old gentleman, dryly. “Have you read the Old Testament?”
“No, sir; that is one of the unfortunate gaps in my education. They tell me you are conducting a Bible class.”
“Every Sunday morning at ten o’clock. I am dealing with the First Book of Samuel, and would be pleased to have my grandson enroll.”
“Thank you. I will surely come. M. Rochambeau tells me that the best Jewish literature is found in the Old Testament.”
“It is much more than Jewish literature, young man. Do not forget that it is the Word of Almighty God, your heavenly Father.”
VIII
All that time Robbie Budd had been sitting in silence, occupied with keeping his emotions from showing in his face. Of course he knew that this youngster had had a lot of practice in dealing with elderly gentlemen. Colonels and generals, cabinet ministers, senators, diplomats, bankers, they had come to Bienvenu, and sometimes it had happened that a boy had to make conversation until his mother got her nose powdered; or perhaps he had taken them for a sail, or for a walk, to show them the charms of the Cap. All this experience he had now put to use, apparently with success; for here sat the leader of the men’s Bible class of the First Congregational Church of Newcastle, Connecticut, who was supposed to be saving the world for democracy, and had before him a portfolio of important papers contributory to that end; but he put his heavy fist on them, and set to work to save the soul of a seventeen-year-old bastard from a semi-heathen part of the world where you had difficulty in finding a copy of the sacred Word of God.
To this almost-lost soul he explained that the Scripture was a source, not merely of church doctrine, but of church polity; and that officers of the church—including Deacon Budd—were to be thought of as exemplars of Christian doctrine, from whom others might understand the nature of Conversion and the reality of Salvation. The deacon reached into the corner of his desk and produced a small pamphlet, yellowed with age, entitled A Brief Digest of the Boston Confession of Faith. “This,” said he, “was composed by your great-great-grandfather for popular use as a simple statement of our basic faith. In it you will find clearly set forth that central truth of our religion—that there is no Salvation save in the blood of the Cross. For that guilt incurred by Adam’s sin passed on into humanity together with the colossal iniquity of the accumulated sins through the ages has made all men hopelessly evil in God’s sight, and deserving His just punishment of spiritual death. Outraged by human sin, the wrath of God has only been appeased by the atoning blood shed by His Son upon the Cross, and only by faith in the blood of Christ can any man find Salvation. No righteousness of life, no good deeds or kindly words, no service of fellow-men can offer any hope of Salvation. It is belief in that redeeming blood poured out on Calvary that alone can win God’s forgiveness and save us from eternal death. I recommend the pamphlet as your introduction to the study of the true Old Gospel.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” said Lanny. He was deeply impressed. As in the case of Kurt explaining the intricacies of German philosophy, Lanny could not be sure how many of these striking ideas had been created by his remarkable progenitors.
Having thus performed his duty as a gua
rdian of sound doctrine, the old gentleman allowed himself to unbend. “Your father tells me that you had a pleasant voyage.”
“Oh, yes,” replied the youth, brightening. “It couldn’t have been pleasanter—except for the collision with an iceberg. Did Robbie tell you about that?”
“He overlooked it.”
“It was such a small iceberg, I suppose it would be better to speak of it as a cake of ice. But it gave us quite a bump, and the ship came to a stop. Of course everybody’s mind had been on submarines from the moment we left England, so they all thought we had been torpedoed, and there was a panic among the passengers.”
“Indeed?”
“The strangest thing you could imagine, sir. I never saw people behave like that before. The women became hysterical, especially those in the third class. Those that had babies grabbed them up and rushed into the first-class saloon, and they all piled their babies in the middle of the floor. No one could imagine why they did that; I asked some of them afterwards, and they said they didn’t know; some woman put her baby there, and the rest of them thought that must be the place for babies, so they laid them down there, and the babies were all squalling, and the women screaming, some of them on their knees praying, and some clamoring for the officers to save them—so much noise that the officers couldn’t tell them that it was all right.”
“A curious experience. And now, young man, may I ask what you plan to do with yourself in this new country?”