“I’m sorry, Aunt Adelaide,” she continued, taking fresh breath, “that you have such a low opinion of the Bouchards. I’ve heard that Uncle Jules was very devoted to you. No one of us has done you any harm. Celeste will be a very lucky girl if she can catch Henri. But I sincerely hope she doesn’t! For his sake.”
Adelaide listened, her mournful eyes fixed on the young woman’s cold and angry face. Then she said with dreary gentleness: “I’m sorry, Edith, dear. I see that I’ve offended you. I’m so sorry. I’m afraid that I’ve blundered dreadfully. Please forgive me. But I thought perhaps you might understand. You are such an intelligent girl.”
She rose with the feeble movements of one who has been very ill. Edith rose, also, and stood in dark silence. Adelaide smiled piteously. “You are right, my dear. I hope for your brother’s sake, that he won’t marry Celeste. It isn’t pleasant to be married to someone who—is suffering. I realize, now, that I must have made Jules unhappy, too. I forgave him many years ago, but that was because I loved him. Now I must forgive him all over again, because I finally understand.”
Edith was touched, in spite of herself. She smiled, and kissed her aunt on the cheek.
“Perhaps we’re both too excited. So far, I haven’t seen any actual desire on Henri’s part to marry Celeste. But I’ll do what I can. You’ll see!”
After Adelaide had left in the wet and windy semi-darkness of the afternoon, Edith sat down and frowned into space for a long time. Finally, with an air of resolution, strangely mixed with excitement and amusement, she went to a telephone and called Christopher at his office. She was very familar with the number. When she spoke to him her expression became gay and soft and chaffing.
CHAPTER XXII
At four o’clock Henri Bouchard called his sister from New York, and urged her to join him there. “Take the ten-ten. I’ll meet you at the Pennsylvania Station in the morning. Come on. The opera season’s about over. No, I don’t like music any better!” He laughed. “But Archibald Post-Brian’s here for a day or two. Maybe I can get rid of you!”
She refused. Henri seemed surprise. “I thought you were all for old Archie. He’s got three million pounds. Besides, I’ve got a lot of stock in Robsons-Strong now, and we might just as well keep it in the family.”
“Well, then, Henri, you’d better marry Archie’s sister, and get yourself a little directorship in Robsons-Strong. Old Uncle Strong has hardening of the arteries, and Verity’s his pet.” Henri laughed again. “I buy munitions. I don’t marry them.”
Edith chuckled. “I’m glad to hear that. I thought perhaps you had designs on Celeste.”
To her surprise Henri did not speak for a moment or two. Then in a matter-of-fact voice he said: “I have.” He added: “Well, if you won’t come, you won’t. But don’t be surprised if old Archie runs over to Windsor to see you.”
Edith felt shaken when she hung up. She sat down at her desk and scowled. Something felt hot and sore in her chest. Her nails pressed into her palms. She and Henri had always been more fond of each other than ordinary. When he had first shown interest in Verity Post-Brian his sister had suffered secretly. Finally, she had become reconciled. It was inevitable that he marry. She could think of no one less objectionable than Verity. But now it seemed that there was Celeste.
Something like hatred ran through Edith for Celeste Bouchard. “She wouldn’t make him happy,” she said aloud. “She will only make him miserable.” Then she added humorously and bitterly to herself: “My girl, you must get married, yourself.”
She dressed carefully for Christopher. She was edified to see how her thin dark fingers shook. She fluffed her hair softly about her colorless face. She touched her lips with red. Her dark red dress had an old-fashioned air. Her appearance seemed vaguely familiar. Then she smiled, remembering. She went downstairs and walked into the great drawing room. On the wall opposite the portrait of her great-grandfather was the portrait of his beloved daughter, Gertrude, and Edith’s own grandmother. She stood under the portrait, and acknowledged, with some amusement, that there was more than a casual resemblance. But the dark living eyes that looked up were not like the dark painted eyes that looked down.
Christopher came just before five. He walked into the room with familiar quickness. Edith came towards him and gave him both her hands. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Hello, wench,” he said. He glanced about. “Where’s old Thomas?”
“Still in bed. There are some troublesome after-effects of the grippe. Do you want to see him?”
“No, thank you. Old gentlemen are very nice, but a little disconcerting. Anyway, I’m in a hurry. We have a dinner tonight, you know. Couldn’t you have waited to tell me about this—whatever it is—when I see you at Emile’s?”
“No. Sit down, Christopher. It won’t take long. I’ve got to ask you something.”
He sat down. She did not. She moved restlessly to the fire, and then turned and looked at him over her shoulder. The red dimness outlined her head. She was very grave and quiet and dark, and her dress, and the fire, and the quietness of her surroundings, gave her a noble and dignified air. Because of the light behind her he could not see her face clearly, but he seemed to guess at her expression. He bit the corner of his lip, and his light fleshless fingers rose and fell on the arm of his chair in a devil’s tattoo.
“Christopher,” she said in a clear and penetrating voice, “is it so necessary for you to push Celeste into a marriage with Henri?”
He did not move or answer. The devil’s tattoo on the arm of his chair did not quicken. Yet she had an impression of enormous tension and awareness.
“After all,” she said gently, “Henri is my brother. He’s all I’ve got, I love him, Christopher.”
The devil’s tattoo slowly stopped. Yet he did not move or speak.
Edith sighed. Then she smiled whimsically.
“Perhaps I’m the only one in the world who understands you, Christopher. But you must think of Celeste, too, besides yourself. Sometimes I’ve disbelieved what I know about you. As for myself, I can’t understand such a passion as yours. I can’t reconcile it with you. I want to believe that there’s something else—”
Christopher’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “My dear girl, you’re a little incoherent. What has Celeste to do with all this? ‘Pushing her into a marriage with Henri!’ I’m not pushing. I have an idea she likes him as much as he likes her.”
Edith shook her head impatiently. “Look, Cristopher, it’s easier, and less confusing, and more honest, for us just to sit here without speaking, and read each other’s thoughts. You never lie in your thoughts, Christopher. That’s why I like you.”
He laughed thinly. “All right. let’s communicate by telepathy.” His lips twitched humorously. “Ready?”
She got up swiftly and stood before him. She bent her head a little and looked piercingly into his eyes. His eyes shifted just a trifle, but he still smiled. Her face became more grave, and somewhat sad.
“Christopher, is it so necessary for you that Celeste marry my brother?”
He did not answer for a moment, then he said directly: “Yes.” He lifted himself to a more upright position in his chair. His eyeballs had an implacable and inimical gleam in the firelight. “Yes, it is. And Edith, I wouldn’t interfere if I were you.”
She seemed incredulous. “But Christopher, you wouldn’t sacrifice your sister!”
He uttered an impatient sound. “Oh, my God, Edith! Listen to yourself! You’re maudlin. I’m not ‘sacrificing’ Celeste. Look here, if she doesn’t want to marry Henri, she needn’t. I won’t lift a finger to persuade her. After all, the girl’s going on twenty. You underestimate Celeste. She can be as stubborn as a mule, and harder to drive than a stone. Good God, you sound like a fool, Edith.”
She continued to gaze at him. Then, very slowly, her eyes dropped. She walked back to the fire. Her slender figure had something rigid in its outlines.
“I want to believe you, but I can’t,” she sai
d musingly.
He laughed suddenly. He got up and went to her. He put his hand on her shoulder and bent his head so that he could look at her profile, rosy with the fire.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like Celeste?”
Her thin shoulder seemed to palpitate under his hand. But she answered steadfastly, not turning to him: “That’s got nothing to do with it. I told you before: I love my brother.” His fingers pressed deeper into her flesh. Quickened blood rose under the clear dark skin of her cheek.
“Look, Edith, maybe Henri wants Celeste. You don’t know what it means for a man to want a woman. He wants her. I can see that. You’re a cool piece. You don’t know what it is to desire.”
She said quietly, her profile still to him: “Do you?”
She felt his fingers lighten on her shoulder. She felt them removed. A dull ache struck her chest “Well,” he said lightly, “I’m a man.”
“Are you?” she asked musingly. “I wonder.”
She could feel him standing immobile beside her. She sighed once more, and pressed the slim narrow palms of her hands together as though she were in pain. Her profile sharpened, yet seemed to gain a sort of somber delicacy.
“I’ve often wondered if you really are a man, Christopher. Sometimes I’ve thought you are. And then, you do something, say something, that makes me think you are a robot, with chromium insides. I can actually hear you click; I can see the wheels turn behind your eyes. You frighten me, sometimes,” she added simply.
He did not stir. She could not even hear his breath. She turned her full face to him swiftly with a sort of fierceness. He was smiling enigmatically, and his eyes were vitriolic points.
“You are a romantic child, Edith,” he said. “You make me feel like a Frankenstein monster.”
“But you are! You are!” she heard herself crying. She felt the burn of appalling tears along the rim of her eyelids. He was regarding her with surprise. Something rose in her throat, and she was horrified to hear herself give a hoarse sob. “But I still won’t believe it. I won’t believe you’re not human.”
He stared, then laughed again. “Don’t be a fool, Edith. Of course, I’m human. What is it you want me to say? Women always want men to say things. They’ll never take anything for granted. You all love to talk, don’t you?”
There were tears on her cheeks. But she was regarding him with dignity. “Yes, Christopher. I want you to say something. I want you to say you love me. You do, you know.” “Do I?” He smiled derisively. But as he looked into her face, into her wet and shining eyes, the derisive smile slowly faded, leaving a sort of rigid fixity behind it.
He walked away from her. He went to a table near the streaming windows. He affected to be-absorbed in the confused landscape outside. She waited near the fire, her back to him, her head bent.
He began to speak as though thinking aloud: “I’ve got no time, I tell you. No time for anything but what I want.” He struck the bony knuckles of his hand on the table. “Do you understand? No time for anything but what I want. When I get it—well, perhaps I’ll have time for other things. Things that are not so important.”
He glanced at her back. She continued to stand before the fire, her head still bent. Suddenly he went to her rapidly. He stood behind her and gripped her upper arms with his hard fingers. He kissed the nape of her neck. A quiver ran over her body. He kissed her again, laid his cheek against hers. Her bruised flesh ached under his fingers.
“I haven’t time,” he said. “But when it is all finished—”
She stared at the fire. Her eyes slowly widened, until the sockets seemed full of intense and burning light.
CHAPTER XXIII
Henri Bouchard was very fond of his sister, Edith. Both of them had more or less affectionately despised their mother, Alice, whom they had considered a fool. Both of them loved their stepfather; he was also a fool, they thought. But there was a difference between the malevolent and silly foolishness of their mother, and the gentle and honorable’ foolishness of Thomas Van Eyck.
But though the brother and sister were so deeply attached to each other, they maintained an attitude of respect and reserve in each other’s presence. They had no confidant but each other, and there was little they did not discuss frankly together. However, beyond this frankness they did not go; they allowed each other’s mind to remain inviolate. Affection, trust and confidence never became humid intimacy or interference or curiosity.
Henri often declared that his sister was the only woman he had ever known who was a human being as well as a female. He did not think her beautiful; but he knew that she was intelligent, and had a curious sort of integrity. It was not the kind of integrity which was above plotting; it was not the kind that would hold her from a sharp double-dealing for her own advantage. But it was the kind that enabled her to keep her mind clear; there was nothing murky in it. She was never dishonorable to herself, nor treacherous to herself.
Everything was candor between brother and sister, except their inmost thoughts. Yet, that night of Henri’s return when Edith suddenly asked him the real reason why they had returned to Windsor, she saw, to her sudden surprise, that she had unwittingly invaded the privacy of her brother. This puzzled and quickened her. She watched the smooth dropping of reserve over his face.
“I told you, Edith: we ought to have roots. We’ve lived all over the world. Just buzzed around from place to place. I got tired of it, as I told you. And you agreed with me that we ought to settle somewhere. And where was better than Windsor, in the house where we were born, and among our own people?” He added thoughtfully, after a moment: “Besides, I’m a Bouchard, too. Our grandparents and great-grandparents started this business. Why shouldn’t we have a share in it, or at least a personal interest in it?”
Edith knew that he had spoken the entire truth. And yet, she was dissatisfied. Henri, she felt, was not filling in the outlines. There was something behind all this. She studied him earnestly, and he looked back at her blandly. She frowned meditatively.
He began to smile, as though he were understanding her dissatisfaction and was amused by it. “I suppose I’m not a modern American. I don’t like half a dozen houses scattered all over the world. I don’t like temporary apartments, no matter how brilliantly furnished. I want a home. Doesn’t that sound old-fashioned? But I want roots. An Establishment.” He glanced with complacence about the immense drawing room, firelit and lamplit. “Yes, I want roots. Here are roots. I’ve come home.”
And again Edith knew he had spoken the truth. But still, the outlines were not filled in.
They were going to the home of Alexander Bouchard, son of Andre, for dinner. Henri stood before the fire, his back to it, his hands clasped behind him, his strong legs wide apart. Firelight lay on the broadness of his shoulders. The young man had the strong quality of immobility. When he moved his large head it was with the slowness and sureness of power.
“Tradition,” he said thoughtfully. “A long time ago someone in the family told me that our great-grandfather had given his whole life to a house. You remember the old Sessions house? A shabby old place, practically in the slums. But it must have been beautiful at one time. Probably fine enough for Ernest Barbour to have sacrificed everything for; probably he did. You don’t get such hatred and scurviness in a family like ours without it all originating in hatred and scurviness a long time ago. Well, anyway, I understand what he wanted. And that’s what I want.”
Yes, thought Edith, that is what you want. But that is not all of it.
She picked up her book and began to read again. Henri watched her for some minutes.
“Edith, are you sorry we came back?”
She did not answer immediately. Then, very slowly, she dropped the book to her knee and regarded her brother with more somberness than he thought necessary.
“No,” she said. “I’m not In a way. Of course, I don’t hanker after tradition, as you do.” She smiled.
Henri eyed her sharply. He wondered if he imag
ined that Edith was even more quiet than usual, lately, and if her eyes were really tired and heavy. Her black dinner dress made her dark throat and breast and face more sallow than ordinarily; her cheek bones had become quite prominent, and also her shoulder blades.
“Edith, if you don’t like it here, please don’t stay on my account I want you to be happy.”
To his surprise, she made a short and violent motion with her hand. “Everyone talks about others being happy! What nonsense. You are never happy after five, and not very often even before that. Don’t worry about my happiness, Henri. Take care of your own. Besides, if I went away, what would you and Father do alone together, in this big old house?”
He seemed amused. “We’d do nicely, though we’d miss you. Then, I may get married, you see.”
“To Celeste?” she spoke indifferently, but her heart began to beat quickly. She was afraid to look at her brother, believing that he might be annoyed at this second invasion of his privacy.
But he was not annoyed. He added, in a very matter-of-fact voice: “Yes. To Celeste. But you seemed to know long ago.”
Edith put her hands together in her lap. Henri could not guess from her quiet voice how deeply her nails were entering her flesh.
“Well, I rather suspected you liked her.” Then, all at once, and in spite of her efforts at self-control, she got up and went to him, facing him on the hearth rug. “Henri, have you asked her yet?”
He stared at her. Her face was quite pale under its darkness. Her eyes were full of intense firelight.
“No, I haven’t. But I don’t have to be so old-fashioned, child. I know she’ll have me. Isn’t she a pretty little thing? A French damosel, all right. Besides, I think Christopher won’t object to the marriage.” And he smiled unpleasantly.
Edith put her hand on his arm, and kissed him on the cheek. “Dear, I hope you’ll be happy,” she said. He heard a faint tremor in her voice. “She is a darling. Be happy, Henri. I’ll kill her if she makes you miserable.”