The Eagles Gather

  Then Peter began to speak, gravely and slowly and quietly: “Celeste, dear, you know why I asked you to come. I wanted to see you alone. You knew that. Celeste, you’ve got to decide tonight. Are you going to marry me, or Henri?”

  She carefully replaced the glass on the tray. Her hand shook. She opened her purse and drew out her handkerchief. She stared at it stupidly, as though wondering what it was. She touched her lips with it. Peter waited, gazing at her somberly. She began to speak, looking at him, then suddenly burst into tears.

  His first impulse was to go to her, then he remembered Georges’ cynical observations, and so he did not move. He waited. He let her cry, though the sound hurt him enormously. She looked so like a child, crouched in her chair, her face covered with the silly lace handkerchief, her hair falling over her cheeks.

  Finally she became quiet. She blew her nose with the touching frankness of a child. She dabbed at her eyes. Then she replaced the handkerchief in her bag. She looked at Peter simply, her cheeks still wet. “You, Peter, of course,” she said. And smiled tremulously.

  Then he went to her. He gathered her up in his arms, sat down, and held her on his knee. She dropped her head on his shoulder, sighing. She put her arm around his neck. They sat in the hot dimming silence, at peace, and almost unbearably happy. Peter kissed her hair, her forehead, her lips. She clung to him with a sort of despairing relief, murmuring incoherently. It seemed to them both that a bright glow of ecstasy filled the room, welled about them, became part of them.

  After a long time, the girl sat up, perched on Peter’s knee. She took off Henri’s beautiful diamond and dropped it into her bag. Peter could not help smiling at the childish gesture, and the air of completion and triumph that accompanied it. For a moment he wondered if she were strong enough to face the storm that would follow her broken engagement, and then instantly decided that she was. In spite of her youth and her unsophistication there was a stern strength in the lines of her pretty face. He told her of Etienne’s gift, and produced it. The ring was too heavy for her slender little finger, and too large. But the opal flamed in the dusk like a living thing made of fire and glory. Peter kissed the finger that held it, and the ring, and then the small hand. All the tenderness that had never had an opportunity to express itself in his lonely life, all the love which had been waiting for this hour, had their fulfilment now. Celeste was only the narrow gateway through which his passion and rapture flowed; she was only the small island that was surrounded by seas of flooding light. His love for her was release, contentment and peace. Young and inexperienced though she was, she felt this, and was humbled and afraid, wondering if she were good enough, and strong enough, to accept what he had to give her.

  When Etienne anxiously returned, he thought at first that Celeste and Peter had gone, for the living-room was dark. He was delighted to find that they were still there, for his own loneliness was a bitter thing. He had, he confessed, ordered that dinner be prepared for all of them, but he had not wanted to make the suggestion before, thinking that perhaps Peter had had other plans. At the table he beamed at them, his foolishness obliterated in his joy in their joy. He found Celeste incomparably beautiful; he colored with rapture when she thanked him for the opal ring. He could not do enough for them. He was disappointed when he discovered that there was to be no immediate wedding, and when they told him that they were going to Crissons that night to inform Christopher that his sister was not going to marry Henri Bouchard, he eagerly and protectingly offered to accompany them. “I’ve heard of that Christopher!”

  He was bewildered when Celeste’s face darkened with hauteur at his remark about her brother. Her eyes became cold and almost repelling. But she said quietly enough, while Peter, frowning anxiously, listened intently: “You don’t know Christopher, Etienne. He’s very reserved; he doesn’t make friends easily, so people think he doesn’t want them. If you knew him better you couldn’t help liking him, I know.”

  Etienne, more bewildered than ever, and trying to catch Peter’s eye, apologized profusely. People did talk, of course. And especially if they misunderstood they were very uncharitable. But mean minds had to have mean fare. He was sorry, but he had spoken too hastily. He hoped Celeste would forgive him. She smiled. The pure curve of her high cheekbones and chin were stronger than ever, and just a little hard.

  Peter’s own face had darkened. He regarded Celeste with somber thoughtfulness. If she gave in to Christopher, it would not be from weakness. Therefore he, Peter, was greatly afraid.

  Celeste had come in on the Long Island Railroad. Etienne insisted that she and Peter go to Crissons together in his own sleek car. During all the drive down the two hardly spoke at all. Celeste’s hand lay in Peter’s. It grew quite cold as they neared Crissons, but it did not tremble. As lights flashed into the car Peter could see the girl’s profile. It was very calm, almost emotionless, the eyes steadfast. Again, he was afraid, though he could hardly have explained why. He thought constantly of Christopher, who must be faced at once. He smiled at his own wincing. The man, after all, was not a monster; he was not inhuman. He was only a human creature. Yet the thought of Christopher was so strong that it seemed to Peter that his personality had invaded the interior of the luxurious car and had poisoned the air. Apparently Celeste was not afraid. Had she been, Peter would have felt easier.

  The car swung up the long curving drive to the house. Celeste had already informed Peter that Henri was away for the week-end on Armand’s yacht. But Crissons was full of guests, among them Edith and old Thomas Van Eyck. The house was blazing at every window with lights. The grounds were full of wandering and laughing people. The chauffeur brought the car to a gliding stop. Peter prepared to get out. Suddenly he stopped, and looked at Celeste. She looked back at him. He could just see the pale oval of her face in the darkness, and the more intense darkness of her eyes. She must have felt his irresolution, his fear. She softly put her hands to his cheeks and kissed him on the lips, all in silence. She was much younger than he, but all at once he felt that she was immeasurably older and more understanding.

  He helped her out of the car, and hand in hand they walked up the steps of the large square white house, deftly avoiding the guests. As they entered the reception hall they saw Adelaide slowly descending the stairway from the upper floor. She saw them; she stopped instantly. Her eyes searched their faces. She clasped her hands convulsively together, and smiled. Her lips shook. “Celeste,” she said, and could say nothing at all beyond that. Celeste dropped Peter’s hand. She went up the stairs to her mother, and kissed her with complete calmness. “Peter and I are going to be married,” she said.

  Adelaide put her arm about her daughter and held out her hand to Peter. She still could not speak. There were tears in her tired old eyes. Peter kissed her cheek. “It’s all right, Adelaide,” he said gently.

  Celeste seemed in command of the situation. Something of the Bouchard ability to control events manifested itself in the way she took off her hat and gloves and tossed them upon a table. Adelaide and Peter seemed irresolute and shaken beside her. She could even smile at them with entire poise. “We’ve got to talk to Christopher right away, Mama,” she said. “Where is ho now?”

  Christopher was outside somewhere, said Adelaide. She had turned pale; she kept glancing about her with a terrified expression. Christopher was sent for. The three stood in the hall and waited. Every room beyond and about them was lighted and empty. Now, all at once, each room, the hallway, the stairs, seemed permeated with menace, full of enemies. Then Peter saw that Celeste was afraid, after all. But he did not touch her. She stood a little apart, waiting. Her mouth was rigid, her eyes a trifle fixed.

  Peter wondered who should speak first when Christopher entered. Should he, himself? He had decided on that when Christopher came in, laughing, with Edith. He had decided that he would ask everyone to leave this absurd place in the hall, where the tableau could easily be seen from outside. There would be dignity in a quiet consultation. He was startled w
hen it was Adelaide who spoke first and immediately, looking directly at Christopher with courage and fortitude:

  “Christopher, Peter and Celeste have just told me they are going to be married soon.”

  Christopher had entered, laughing. He was no longer laughing, now. He stood there, a curious smile fixed on his narrow face, his almond eyes motionless. Edith, beside him, gasped once, then was still. Her hand, which had been on Christopher’s arm, slipped off. She turned as white as death.

  Christopher looked at them all, slowly, without expression. He looked at Celeste, then slowly, at Peter. And then, last of all, at his mother. He still smiled. But now, all at once, the light gray eyes gleamed malignantly.

  “Christopher,” said Celeste. She went towards her brother, holding out her hand to him imploringly. Peter stepped forward; the gleam in Christopher’s eye had become murderous as it turned upon his sister.

  But he took Celeste’s hand. He smiled at her humorously. He swung her hand a little in his, as he had done when she had been a child. “Isn’t this a little—sudden?” he asked indulgently. Her forehead was wet, and wisps of black hair clung to it, curling. With his other hand he gently pushed up the hair, then patted the girl’s cheek. Edith, at his side, did not move or speak. She had averted her head, and even her lips were white. Adelaide clasped her hands convulsively together.

  Christopher now turned to Peter, his expression amused and amiable. “What have you been doing to Celeste?” he asked. His voice was indulgent, just faintly censorious, and he spoke in the tone of a father reprimanding the little boy playmate of his little daughter for some impropriety.

  Peter flushed violently. For the first time in his life he felt the deep and ecstatic urge to kill. His nostrils flared out; his upper lip lifted from his teeth; his eyes were as baleful as Christopher’s. But he said very quietly:

  “I’m going to marry her.”

  Christopher laughed gently. He put his arm about Celeste and shook her affectionately. The girl’s face was full of fright, and Peter could see the veins throbbing in her temple. She could not take her eyes from her brother’s face. She seemed to realize, for the first time, what evil there was in him.

  “Well,” said Christopher, “don’t you think we ought to discuss this in private? Upstairs, in my room? After all, we may attract an audience.”

  He held Celeste’s hand tightly. He went towards the stairway. Adelaide was standing on the bottom step. She moved aside, as though in horror, as her son approached. He passed her without a glance, holding Celeste’s hand. After a moment Peter followed.

  The three disappeared. Adelaide and Edith stood alone downstairs. After a long time they looked at each other steadfastly, without speaking.

  Then Edith, her eyes fixed ahead, passed Adelaide on the stairway. She held her dark head very high. She went up without hurry. She went into her own room.

  Adelaide did not move. She leaned against the balustrade and closed her eyes. Her dry colorless lips moved as though she were praying.

  CHAPTER XLIV

  Christopher said: “Let’s sit down and discuss this like intelligent human beings.”

  “Is it possible you can do that?” asked Peter. Christopher did not reply. He merely indicated a chair for his sister. She sat down. Peter picked up a small chair and put it beside Celeste’s. He took her hand. She did not remove it, but she also did not respond to his warm pressure. Her hand was very cold, but still. She did not look at him, but only at her brother.

  Christopher sat down. He appeared utterly unperturbed. It was not a matter of importance he was about to discuss. It was some minor affair in which he had been polite enough to exhibit some interest, though he knew beforehand that he would be bored. Peter observed this; his mouth set palely and grimly. He said to himself: the main necessity is calmness.

  He had not thought it possible to hate anyone as he hated this thin-profiled and venomous man with the “Egyptian” eyes and vitriolic smile. His values were suddenly confounded. Before the raging of his hatred his passionate belief in tolerance and compassion was shriveled like paper on which had been inscribed the meaningless scrawls of children. He had believed that he had discovered that no man is vile, and no man good, and that the difference between men is only in degree. Now he believed only in evil, and the terrible struggle he must engage in to destroy this evil. Yet, all through him went the dreadful feeling of impotence. He could not attack when nothing was presented to attack. Before Christopher’s indulgent and minimizing attitude all hot exigencies and passion became absurd and futile, and not a little ridiculous, and more than a little improper.

  Christopher lit a cigarette, then remembering, offered one to Peter. He smiled at Peter, shaking his head slightly. Peter accepted a cigarette; he detested himself because his fingers shook. Celeste was not tense; she sat very quietly, waiting. But every bone in her face stood out under her flesh. She did not look away from her brother for even an instant.

  “Now then,” said Christopher, addressing both of them with a smile and a casual gesture of his hand. “What is all this?”

  He seemed to glance at his sister, but she saw only the glaze of his eyes, a glittering film of glass behind which he surveyed her inimically. He seemed to glance at Peter, and Peter, too, saw the film of malignant brightness.

  He tried to keep his voice without emotion as he replied: “It’s just this: Celeste has found out that she prefers to marry me instead of Henri. She made a mistake. That’s all. Does it need any more discussion?”

  Christopher pursed his lips with a tolerant judiciousness. He said frankly: “Yes, I am afraid it does. You see, Peter, Celeste isn’t a little shopgirl, of no importance and no name. She is Celeste Bouchard, a great heiress, and daughter of a great family. When her engagement to Henri was announced, it was of world importance. She’s not a chorus girl. She can’t lightly hop from one engagement to another every few weeks without attracting undesirable attention and notoriety. You see her position?”

  It was Celeste, now, who spoke, for the first time since she had entered this room, and there was nothing but tranquil firmness in each word: “None of that is important, Christopher. You see, I never knew many men. Then Henri came. I—liked him. I still like him, no more and no less than I did the day I became engaged to him. But since I’ve known Peter I know that what I felt for Henri isn’t enough. I love Peter,” she added simply, her voice dropping to a lower note. Her deep blue eyes, fixed so intently upon her brother, suddenly glowed. She smiled. Now, the hand that Peter held warmed, and he felt its pressure.

  Christopher’s indulgent expression did not change, except that it became more affectionate. He ignored Peter; he gave all his attention to his sister. In a tone of regret he said: “Do you think this is fair to Henri, darling?”

  She pressed her lips together; her nostrils dilated. Peter felt a quick thrust of fear, and he tightened his hold on Celeste’s hand. He spoke before she could speak: “Do you think it is fair to Henri for Celeste to marry him, now?”

  But Christopher still ignored him. He waited for Celeste to answer him. He still smiled, but there was malevolence in that smile.

  Celeste drew a quick breath. “Peter is right,” she said, and her hands clenched together as though all at once she was dreadfully frightened.

  Christopher shook his head gently. “I don’t agree with you, darling,” he said. “And I don’t understand you, Celeste. This isn’t like you. Let’s be sensible. You haven’t known Peter very long. He is new. He—isn’t like the rest of us. You are’a romantic young girl, and like all romantic young girls you are afflicted with hero worship.” Suddenly he laughed with apparent enjoyment, and his laughter threw Peter into a shamefully ridiculous light, a light of cheap sentimentality and half-witted grandiloquence.

  The rage and increased hatred that swept over, Peter made him ill. He did not know what to do. Anything he could do or say would make him appear more ridiculous than ever, would degrade him in Celeste’s eyes. He said to
himself, forcing himself to sit without moving in his chair: He is trying to arouse me. He wants me to make myself contemptible, and shame myself. So he did nothing, though his face was coldly damp and his heart was beating with enormous pain.

  Christopher waited. But Peter did nothing. He had made the unbearable reply of silence to ridicule, and it was Christopher who was cheapened. He showed no sign of his inner fury, except that his thin features sharpened with subtle brutality. He did not glance at Peter, but he thought: He is more dangerous, and more intelligent, than I suspected.

  Poor little Celeste was white to the lips. But her fortitude kept her calm in spite of a strange terror that had taken hold of her at the sight of Christopher’s eyes. Her voice was steadfast but thin: “You make me sound like a fool, Christopher. But I’m really not. I just know I can’t marry Henri, and that I want to marry Peter. And I’m going to, you know.”

  Christopher was silent for a moment Neither Celeste nor Peter suspected what frightful things went on in him, rage and hatred and murder and despair and deadly determination. They saw only that his face had a curious fixity, and that he had dropped his eyes. He began to examine his fingernails. The silence in the room became almost intolerable. The open windows brought them the sound of voices and laughter outside in the dark hot night. There were flashes of light on the ceiling from the headlights of moving cars. Someone was calling for Christopher. A telephone shrilled downstairs.

  Then tears began to fill Celeste’s eyes. Her heart ached, yearned towards her brother, who had become a stranger she did not know and could not understand. Her mouth shook. She said: “Christopher. Christopher!” And now she held out her little hands to him in a gesture that pleaded for both forgiveness and comfort. Peter could not bear it. He put his arm about her; he tried to draw her attention to him. But she looked only at her brother. The tears began to slip down her cheeks.