“Don’t be silly. I won’t, of course. But I’m dying to know who he is.”
“You’ll know, soon enough.”
“But tell me this, anyway: Do I like him? You can surely tell me that.”
Annette was silent a moment. She frowned in concentration. “I don’t know, Celeste. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you both in the same room together more than once or twice.” She sighed, shivered, smiled again.
Celeste marveled. With the instinctive shrewdness of womta, she studied Annette’s frail boardlike body. The thin short legs ridged her dress. Her feet were tiny as a child’s. Her breasts were immature, budding. Celeste felt embarrassed and guilty once more. She was conscious of her own body, warm and vital and rich with young womanhood.
The door opened and Armand entered. He was much earlier today than usual. Annette, with a cry of delight, swooped towards him. He gathered her in his arms and held her to him. Against his bulk she looked frailer than ever, and more than ever like a bird.
“What have you girls been doing alone here, in the dark?” he asked. He nodded at his young sister. She turned on lights, poked the fire into a cheerful blaze. He regarded her with smiling somberness, ashamed that he could covet her young strength and health and glowing vitality, for his child.
“Annette’s been playing me her new Spring Nocturne,” replied Celeste. She was never quite comfortable with her oldest brother, for she subconsciously recognized in him a betrayal of integrity. “It’s very beautiful. Play it for your father, Annette.”
“Oh, Dad would be bored,” said Annette. Armand sat down, and held his little daughter on his knee. “No, I won’t be bored, darling. Play it.” He ran his big blunt hand over her rippling hair. He seemed reluctant to let her go.
Annette sat down at her harp. She threw back her hair, and lifted her small pale fingers. They touched the strings gently, softly, meditatively. Armand leaned back in his chair, his hand half shielding his face, his thick short legs relaxed as though he were exhausted. Behind that shield he did not look at his daughter, as usual, but at his sister, who was sitting near Annette’s stool. Celeste’s head was lifted; her dark hair fell back from her face and temples, and for the first time he noticed the stern delicate modeling of her young face, the strong purity of her cheeks and forehead. He was drearily ashamed of his covetousness, even though it had been for Annette. He seemed to see Celeste clearly for the first time. He said to himself: Mother is right. Now he became aware that Celeste was gazing at him; she must have been attracted by the current of malaise that flowed from him. At any rate she was thinking that her brother appeared much older, much more tired, and much paler, than ordinarily.
The silvery notes were forming on the strings of the harp, and were rising with that almost visible brightness on the warm air. Their melancholy sweetness was nearly unbearable; their poignancy was well-nigh painful. They suggested a spring evening, full of nostalgia and sad beauty. The new greenness they conjured up, the vision of faint dark sky and living air and breathing earth and opening purity, of spring moon and freshening plain and cool running water, was only a background for a dim and mournful suffering that was without words. It was an emotion that both hoped and despaired, that rose one moment on a blowing veil of hope, and then saw that veil dissolve. It was an awareness of life, and the shadow of life, which is death. Armand, who knew nothing of music, and cared less for it, felt as if each of those sorrowful yet tender notes struck on his naked heart. His tiredness and disgust, his depression and dread, his own hopelessness and mental weariness, had stripped that heart of its defenses. He closed his eyes. There was nothing but darkness, in which there was nothing but the singing of the harp. His thoughts were chaotic. It was strange then, that he suddenly thought: It would be better for Annette to die.
He was so startled by his thought that he opened his eyes. The last notes were falling and whispering into silence. Little Annette’s head was bent, as though she were meditating. Armand felt a bitter burn along his eyelids, but when Annette looked at him expectantly he smiled at her.
“It is beautiful, darling. Have you-er-got it written down, or whatever it is that you musicians do with your compositions? We’ll send it to a publisher—”
She shook her head. “No, it isn’t—written down, Dad. You see, each time I play it, it is different. Isn’t it, Celeste?”
Celeste started, as if touched, during sleep, by an awakening hand. “Yes. Yes, of course. It is different every time.” Her face had a sleeping quality of peace and joy on it. “This time it seemed to promise everything. It seemed to tell me that there was nothing in all the world but beauty and happiness.” She smiled shyly at what she considered her own extravagance. “Didn’t it tell you that too, Armand?”
He stared at her. She could not read his expression. “No, Celeste. I’m afraid it didn’t. But then,” and he smiled painfully, “I’m not a young girl. You see, I don’t expect anything.”
He studied the two young faces and thought: Is it possible that they expect anything? He was suddenly compassionate. Compassion was not a customary emotion with him. He could not recall having experienced impersonal pity before. He seemed to have grown much older in his heart and mind in the last few hours, and much more subtle. He thought again, wryly: Would I have been able to understand all this, and been able to pity, if I were not just cowardly afraid of my brothers? If I had not just come from Nick, and had not heard what I’ve just heard in his office, would I have found anything else in my darling’s music but just a pretty sound? Perhaps all these grand emotions everyone talks about, but which I’ve never experienced before, are only the products of fear.
Annette was climbing on his knee again. She was putting her head on his shoulder. His arms tightened about her, almost jealously. He remembered his thought that it would be better for her to die, and a pang divided him. He kissed her hair, and gently bit her cheek, a loving habit of his. “You are just a puss,” he said absently. Over her head he regarded his sister with heavy thoughtfulness.
“What’s all this I hear about you getting married, Celeste?” he asked abruptly.
Annette stirred in his arms. “Married!” she shrieked. “Celeste? Married?” She sat up, her little face brightening with laughter and excitement. “Celeste! That’s not fair. You didn’t tell me!”
Celeste was silent. Her face flushed red with embarrassment. But she was smiling. “I didn’t tell you because there’s nothing to tell. Really. Where did you get such an idea, Armand?”
He scrutinized her for a long moment or two. He saw her warm color, and the way her eyes shone with confusion. Yet, in his new subtlety, he could pause a moment and drearily consider how much self-interest there was in his sudden alarm.
“Someone mentioned it to me, Celeste. But if you do not want to say anything about it—to us—”
Annette slipped off her father’s knee. She ran to Celeste, knelt down beside her, laughing. “Oh, you cheat! Never to say anything about it to me! Who is he, Celeste? What is his name? Do I know him?”
Armand, painfully alert, leaned forward, the better to watch his sister. She sat in her low chair, and was turning redder and redder each moment. She did not know where to look. She averted her face from Annette, kneeling beside her.
“It’s so silly. There’s nothing to say. Honestly. I don’t know who could’ve.been telling you—”
Armand felt relief. “Well, then, if it’s just gossip, we’ll let it drop. But I was given to understand it was practically settled. I might have known, though, that if there had been anything to it I’d’ve heard, as your brother, my dear.”
Celeste said nothing. She rubbed her fingers together. But Annette was becoming more excited. “Oh, even if it’s not settled, I want to know about it! You’ve hurt my feelings. Can’t you tell me, just a little?”
Armand smiled at his little daughter. “Don’t be so excited, child. You’ve heard Celeste say there is nothing to it. It was just a rumor that she and Henri Bouchard were about to become
engaged. It seems, though, that it was even less than a rumor.”
Celeste had blushed again. “I can’t think who—” she murmured. Armand frowned. His sister’s confusion frightened him. There was something to all this!
“At any rate, Celeste, you’re only a child. You’ve not seen anything of the world. Take your time. Take your time. You’ve got a lot of time, you know. Young girls can make serious mistakes.”
He looked into her eyes gravely. And she looked back, with increasing shyness. Neither noticed Annette, still kneeling beside Celeste. Neither noticed how rigid she had become, there on her knees, and how deathly white her face had turned, and how distended and fixed were her great blue eyes. Neither noticed how her hands had dropped to her side, and how her lips had fallen open as though she had been mortally struck.
“I don’t want to make mistakes,” said Celeste in a low voice.
“No, of course not,” said her brother, with fraternal eagerness. “See here, my dear child: I’m your brother, but I’m old enough to be your father. Almost, at any rate. Perhaps I’ve neglected you somewhat. Young men are apt to neglect children in a nursery. I’m sorry for that. I’ve always hoped that you’d be happy, however. I’d—I’d like to help yoii, some way. And somehow, I don’t think Henri could make you happy. You’re too young and inexperienced, for him. You see?”
Celeste was silent. But an expression of cold pride and aloofness settled on her face. Armand regarded her earnestly, and with mounting alarm.
“Celeste, my dear, don’t be offended. I don’t mean to offend you. I am deeply interested in you. I’d be—sorry—if you were unhappy.”
She looked at him with directness. “Why do you think Henri would make me unhappy?”
He could be surprised, even at this moment, that little shy Celeste could exhibit such strength of character. I have underestimated the child, he thought. He stammered when he answered her.
“My dear, I believe he would.” And all at once he was no longer hypocritical. He truly believed what he was saying. “Do you remember hearing Father talk about his Uncle Ernest? Do you remember what he said?” The girl did not move; her eyes were fixed upon him darkly. “Well, Celeste, Henri is Ernest Barbour’s great-grandson. And from what I have seen of him, I would say he is another Ernest Barbour. Do you think a man like that could make you happy?”
She did not answer. Armand got to his feet abruptly. He began to walk up and down the room. He passed and repassed his kneeling daughter, but did not see her. He was too engrossed with the portentousness of what was happening in this room. He went to the window, and looked out at the’ dim grays and blacks and whites of the wintry park-like grounds. A wind shook the tall wide windows. In the far distance he could catch the iron glimmer of the river.
“I don’t think Henri can be trusted,” he said aloud. “If you were my daughter I would say the same thing to you. I wouldn’t want to see you marry him. There’s something about him that’s without integrity—” He paused. His head seemed to sink a little between his shoulders. He twisted his neck uneasily. “He’s ruthless. I don’t—like men like that He wouldn’t make you happy, Celeste.”
Her silence continued. Armand sighed. He lifted his head and looked gloomily at the warm bright picture of the room behind him, which was reflected in the glass of the window. He saw Celeste, silent and brooding. And then a chill struck him. He saw his little daughter’s face and attitude. He looked closer, something throbbing in his chest. His lips dried. He moistened them. Then, very slowly, he turned and looked at the picture directly.
And now he saw nothing but Annette, poor little Annette, with her face of death, and her hanging hands.
Celeste began to speak. “He—he’s not said anything to me yet, Armand. You mustn’t think I’m ungrateful to you—He’s not said anything. I—I like him. I don’t think you’re fair, in some ways—” She colored again, violently.
But Amand still saw nothing but Annette. And as he gazed at her a fierce rage of protection came into his eyes, and the grimmest of lines settled about his lips.
CHAPTER XX
Jay Regan, old and huge and fat, “robber baron extraordinary,” knew more about American history than any historian ever did, and more about the history of any peoples, and as a giant among financiers, Jay Regan was excessively well informed.
He was old, but he loved human nature. He never lost his zest for it. And so, as he turned a certain letter over and held it in his hands today, he smiled with an almost childish enjoyment. It was a letter from Henri Bouchard asking him for an interview within a few days.
He said aloud, musingly, smilingly: “I wonder what this young sprig is like? Is he like his great-grandfather, Eniest Barbour, that glacier among men, or is he like his uncle, Jules Bouchard, the Richelieu of the armaments industry? Or is he a combination of the two?”
Regan remembered Ernest Barbour with the excitement with which one remembers the vision of something extraordinary, and not to be forgotten. His father had often called him into his office to be present during conferences between himself and Ernest Barbour. The younger Regan had found Ernest’s face fascinating in its smooth stoniness, its large implacability. Conferences with him present were less exciting than terrible. One had the feeling of something imminent, which did not appear to have happened. It was only later that one felt that it had indeed happened.
But Jules Bouchard! Ah, it was better than all the operas, all the plays and the tragedies and the comedies, to be present when he dominated a conference! It was like watching color and fire, buffoonery in silk and satin. And yet, later, one had the feeling that the thing which had happened was no less terrible than the things which Ernest Barbour had made to happen. But it was all so much fun, and excitement, and color, while it had been happening.
Ah, Jules was a man! remembered Jay Regan. And he remembered this again when Henri Bouchard, a few days later, was announced.
Regan waited with excited interest. He was an old man, now, and he did not think that the heirs of old Barbour-Bouchard were of the stature of Ernest Barbour. He knew Anpand Bouchard very well, and had respect for his shrewdness and his executive ability and soundness. But he was also an astute man, and had long ago guessed the uneasiness of the suppressed integrity of Armand, and he had his private apprehensions that some day that integrity might destroy its owner. He remembered Honore Bouchard, and the probity which had well-nigh wrecked a certain conference in his office in 1914. He remembered his own father’s story of the uneasy integrity of Eugene Bouchard, father of Honore. “Itching consciences seem to run in the family,” he thought. He remembered, grinning faintly, what his father had said of integrity, and particularly of the brand of integrity which cropped up at intervals in the Bouchard family: “It’s just a costiveness of the spirit.”
Regan knew all the Bouchards. Of them all, he liked only Armand. But he considered Christopher to be the only one possessing some part of the qualities of Jules Bouchard and Ernest Barbour. However, Christopher’s apparent lack of human warmth and roundness made him a sterile character in Regan’s estimation. To be a Titan, in full, a man must beget with his body as well as with his mind, thought Regan. Steel-colored monks like Christopher must fail at the end for not taking the human equation into consideration. At the end, one invariably bumped into human beings, and if one had no humanness to respond to the humanness of others, one failed, at the inevitable moment. Once he had said to Christopher: “Why don’t you marry? Have half a dozen children. You’ll be a better man for it, a wiser man. No, I’m not sentimental. But I know what is necessary to success.”
He guessed, shrewdly, that Christopher well understood the subtleties or craftinesses or plottings or treacheries of others. But the flesh behind them he did not understand, and therein, Regan believed, lay his inevitable defeat.
Now he was quite curious to see the great-grandson of Ernest Barbour. He, himself, had been a young man at Yale when Ernest had been in his late middle-age, yet the memory
of those inexorable eyes, the large head and crest of vital hair, the broad shoulders and virile, stocky figure, the heavy sullen lips and firm tread, was fresh and unfaded. So, when Henri Bouchard entered, Regan was not for a moment amazed; the young man seemed but an extension of his memory into the present.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Regan,” said Henri gravely. Regan did not speak. Henri smiled. He was used to this profound transfixion of those who saw him for the first time, and who remembered his great-grandfather.
Finally Regan could speak, and then huskily. “Sit down, please. So, you’re Henri Bouchard. Did anyone ever tell you how much you look like Ernest Barbour?”
“Yes. Practically everybody who knew him. They usually end up, though, by doubting if I have what they call his ‘qualities.’” And the young man smiled again.
Regan was silent a moment. He continued to study the other. Then he asked bluntly: “Have you?”
Henri lifted his shoulders imperceptibly, the only gesture he had inherited from his Latin strain. He did not answer. But his eyes met the shrewd old eyes of Regan and did not move away.
Finally, Regan pushed his silver-and-ivory cigar box towards the young man. “Will you have a drink?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” answered Henri. “I don’t care for it.” Regan was in the act of pouring brandy into a small silver container. He finished pouring. Then he said in a peculiar voice: “Your great-grandfather, I remember hearing my father say, did not like the taste of alcohol. But you have lived in England, and in France—”
“I still don’t like it,” said Henri, smiling. He saw that the old big stout man was considerably shaken.
Regan sipped the brandy thoughtfully. “It’s amazing,” he murmured, staring at the young man. He finished sipping, put down the container. “I hear you have come home to stay. Is that true?”
“Yes. My sister and I have returned to Windsor, and are living in the old house my grandparents built. We intend to stay.”