“He wakes up quite soon, Stuart,” he said composedly. “Don’t agitate yourself, I beg of you. If you will sit down for a little while, unless, of course, you have other and more pressing engagements, you will have the pleasure of having him hear you.”
Savagely, Stuart tore a chair away from the table, thumped it down at a considerable distance from Robbie, and stared at the youth with fury.
“Your pet brother! He is so much your pet that you cannot watch him!”
Robbie glanced at his brother quietly. For an instant, only, his keen black eyes softened, and his smile faded. Then he said, still looking at Bertie: “I am indeed very fond of him. He is happy. Who am I to interfere with his happiness?”
“You can say that?” said Stuart, aghast, fulminating. “You think a drunken stupor is happiness? You think if a man makes a spectacle of himself, and degenerates into such degradation, no one should try to prevent it?”
Slowly, calmly, Robbie looked at him. He studied him in silence. He appeared all meditation. Then he said: “It is apparent that you do not understand, Stuart. You think it can be prevented, that he can be aroused to shame, that exhortations can save him. I tell you, nothing can be done.”
Again he studied Stuart, who stared at him stupidly. “For example, Stuart,” he continued, his hand delicately playing with his chain, “you drink. But you are no drunkard, in spite of the undoubtedly large quantity of spiritous liquors you consume. You see, then, there is a difference between you and Bertie: you, who drink, and Bertie, who is a drunkard. Is the distinction too fine?”
“You talk like a conceited young ass,” said Stuart rudely.
Robbie smiled, and shook his head in polite denial. “Perhaps I have not made myself clear, Cousin Stuart. I have made a study of such matters. I have talked long with our physician, Dr. Gibson. There is a literature of sorts on the subject, which I have closely inspected.
“For instance, as I have said—and with no offense meant—you are a drinker. But you always have a reason for drinking. You are angered: you drink a few glasses. You are depressed, and always for a good and sufficient reason: you drink a certain amount. Whiskey is an anodyne for you, numbing the too sharp sensations which afflict you. When they are numbed, you no longer drink. You drink with friends, for jovialty and good-fellowship. In short, you drink, but always for some reason.” He paused. “But Bertie needs no reason, no reason at all. That is why he is a drunkard.”
Stuart continued to stare at Robbie intimidatingly, but also with confusion now. He felt his whole big body awkward and too cumbersome, in the presence of that small and precise elegance, which was too wise.
Robbie continued calmly: “There is another distinction between you and Bertie, not too subtle a one. You like the taste; you enjoy it, not only for the effect when you are disturbed or in good company. No drunkard enjoys liquors. He loathes them; they gag him. A man who enjoys his drinks is always in control of himself. But a man who drinks, and drinks alone, for no discernible reason, is a man who cannot stop.”
This was all too much for the simple Stuart. His head whirled. He glowered at Robbie. “I suppose,” he said with elaborate and futile sarcasm, “that none of you has ever exhorted this young fool to be a man?”
Robbie’s smile was gently thoughtful. “There you have it, Stuart. Bertie does not want to be a man.”
“Eh?”
“Exactly, Cousin Stuart. He does not want to be a man. At intervals, he feels the pressure upon him to be a man, the pressure within himself. He resists. His resistance is drink. When he drinks he becomes utterly irresponsible, incapable of being a man, freed from the necessity. He becomes a child again, one who must be cared for, guarded, loved and protected. No one expects him to ‘stand on his own feet.’ He becomes again the heedless child.”
Now he folded his hands slowly on his lap and contemplated Stuart with detached reflection. “Who can make Bertie strong? He was born with that soft core of weakness in him. Nothing can strengthen him. Nothing can harden that cheesy core. We are impotent to help him. He alone can help himself. And I doubt even that. The inherently weak man has no will. He does not want a will. He does not want to face the hardships and adversities and duties and responsibilities of adulthood. Nothing can make him want to face them. It is useless. We can only keep him happy until he dies of his affliction.”
“You are a cold-blooded young devil!” exclaimed Stuart.
Robbie shook his head in gentle denial. “I am a realist, Cousin Stuart. I am not insensible to the misery of our poor flawed Bertie. But there is nothing I can do. I can only stand by, and assist him when his childishness leads him into such predicaments.”
Stuart stared at Robbie in silence, with something like humble fear, and with much helpless hatred.
Robbie looked at his brother with a cool anxiety. “He must have drunk a great deal, this time. He has been away from home since morning. This bout began four days ago. Usually four days are enough. Yet this is the fifth day, and he is still drinking. I suppose I shall simply have to wait until he is able to walk.”
Stuart stood up. His depression was heavy upon him. “I have my carriage near by. I was going to call upon your mother, anyway. We can take Bertie.”
“Why, thank you, Stuart,” said Robbie, composedly. “That is a relief. Will you assist me? I think we can carry him out, between us.”
He stood up, also. Stuart hesitated, scowling. “Your—mother. What does she think of all this, eh?”
Robbie shrugged, delicately. “Sometimes she thinks he is a ‘braw laddie.’ That is when she is in a good temper. She admires a man who drinks; it is manly, I believe is her opinion. Then when she is not in a good temper she berates him, even strikes him. I have seen her beat him with her slipper, and have heard her curse him. That is because she does not understand.”
“She gives him too much money!”
Robbie smiled, as at some absurd remark from a child. “I assure you that if Bertie were not given money, he would sell anything, or rob anyone, for the money with which to drink. Mama has some regard for my opinion. I have persuaded her that withholding money will do no good, so, for the family name, and for Bertie himself, it would not be wise to limit his allowance, or completely deprive him of money. He will only bring disgrace upon himself, and upon us. No, it is better for him to be able to buy what whiskey he needs. And I assure you, Stuart, he desperately needs it. After such bouts, I always take home a bottle for him, or he would surely die, or go mad.”
“Have you had your minister talk to him?” demanded Stuart, fuming, unwilling to accept the cold and terrible verdict which Robbie had pronounced on his brother.
Robbie compressed his lips, to keep from smiling again.
CHAPTER 29
It was Angus’ custom to read to his mother every Sunday afternoon. He did not approve of her choice of literature, but he had the gift of resolutely closing his very consciousness to that which he did not desire or wish to acknowledge. He could read aloud for hours, in a grave, well-modulated and excellent voice, and not have a single conception or memory of the thing he had read. The voluptuous scenes narrated in the yellow-backed “French” novels passed over his awareness like unnoticed clouds. The amorous bedroom encounters did not make a solitary blush rise to his pale and virgin cheek. Sparkling and witty dialogue left him immune from humor. Janie would sometimes watch him with wry and amused interest as he read, and was always baffled at the lack of disconcerted embarrassment or discomfort. She would lie on her chaise-longue, her lacy scarf or shawl over her thin shoulders, and help herself to a plate of bon-bons, or sip tea, and listen attentively and with enjoyment.
She was nearly forty now, and needed spectacles to assist her lengthening sight, her inability to read small print. But her vanity, her hatred and fear of age, would not submit to this need.
So she would half-recline comfortably, and have Angus read to her. He did not find it onerous, though a few times he had gently suggested passages from the
Bible and decorous books suitable to the Sabbath. Janie’s prompt, and very rowdy and very blasphemous, rejection had made him wince, and he never mentioned the subject now. She would sometimes study him idly or with cynical conjecture as he read, sitting near her in a stiff armless chair, his hands holding the book high, his somber young face expressionless through all the tawdry or passionate text.
On this particular Sunday Janie was in quite good humor. Outside, the sky was like polished pewter, brilliant with diffused sunlight. The black and sinewy arms of trees formed an intricate pattern on the shining panes of window glass near which she lay on her chaise-longue. She could glance down at the Sabbath silence of the street below, and bemusedly watch the glittering carriages that occasionally rumbled over the cobbles. In the distance, the cross on the steeple of a church flashed in reflected light. Soft bells announced Vespers. A fire crackled on the marble hearth, and threw long rosy spears on the solid black furniture, which was all comfort and pleasant ugliness. Her canopied bed was white, covered with lace flounces and little pillows. The draperies at the windows were rose-strewn silk, and very rich and heavy, in accordance with Janie’s taste. By her elbow stood a little table on which reposed a tea-tray and contents. (She had taught her cook the art of making scones.) There was marmalade there, a pitcher of thick cream, hot tea in a Limoges teapot, the scones, a plate of seed-cake, and a round silver bowl of sugar. The tea steamed; the fire chuckled; the pewter sky brightened; the bells filled the air with a sweet murmuring; the house was quiet. Only Angus’ voice went on, fluid, eloquent, and very clear. It took only a little imagining to make her half-believe that she was home in England, and not in an alien land at all.
She had bought this tall narrow brick house shortly after leaving Stuart’s fabulous mansion. In a spirit of contrition (for he was warmhearted), he had been able to purchase this house for her at a substantial saving over the original price. It was ugly, three stories in height, with narrow dark halls and unexpected thin staircases, and tall box-like rooms. But it was also very comfortable, warm in winter, cool in summer, and for Grandeville, amazingly dry. Gloomy, dull, blank-faced, with a wooden verandah, high slit-like windows, carved fretwork and little stone excrescences at those windows called balconies, it was properly respectable and stood on the second-best fashionable street, surrounded by almost identical neighbors. The lawn before it was narrow, enclosed in privet hedges (brown now, in December), and surrounded by huge dank trees. But there was considerable ground, and a garden in the rear, and a good stable and other buildings. The street was called Porter Avenue, and was quite near the river. It was also near The Front, where a garrison of soldiers was maintained, suspiciously aware of Canada, and Janie could hear the evening taps very clearly, and sometimes the morning reveille. This never failed to excite and interest her. Quite often the garrison would march through the river streets, very rigid and stern, with drums beating and fifes playing and flags fluttering, and the officers very handsome indeed on their black horses. There was one, especially, with great black mustaches and excellent shoulders, who always saluted her when he pranced by, as she leaned from her upper window to watch. It was very romantic.
She had only two servants, and did much work herself, polishing the many silver articles, mending, embroidering and doing considerable creation in needle-point with her skilled needle. She loved order and cleanliness, and was not in the least averse to assisting in obtaining this desirable state. Her natural vigor, which had not abated with the years, found a happy outlet in this work.
All in all, she was quite content. She had the happy faculty of adjusting herself to circumstance, and enjoying herself wherever she was. She was much admired in Grandeville, especially by the gentlemen, and as she was hospitable, amusing and gay, invitations to dine with her were eagerly accepted. For the first time in her life she had been careful to cultivate female friendship, and had many sincerely devoted friends, and practically no enemies. Janie was not one to kick against the pricks. Like wine, she filled the goblet of her environment, and sparkled invitingly in it.
At first she had thought she might marry. But none had pleased her among these beefy merchants, tanners, horse-traders, butchers, bankers and manipulators of land. Moreover, Grandeville air seemed conducive to longevity among Grandeville females, so there were few widowers.
She carried off her old humiliation very well. After a short interval she had invited Stuart and his new wife to dine, and gave a party for them. During that dinner she had been a most perfect and engaging hostess, showering beaming looks of affection on “dear Marvina,” chiding Stuart affectionately for having neglected his “family” during the period of his ecstatic honeymoon, gently forgiving him with an arch look, imploring her guests to love and pardon him, with glances that were very touching. All in all, she carried it off excellently, and Stuart, red-faced and confused, was grateful to her.
She even deceived Stuart, so that he invited her alone, artlessly believing in her reformation. His first visits had been received with abuse, upbraidings and curses. He had vowed never to come again. But Janie, with a crafty narrowing of her evil green eyes, had burst into laughter, and had shouted: “You would not dare, you blackguard!” However, though he did visit her alone, for the sake of appearances his visits were few and far between. Later, a precarious peace prevailed between them, and then Janie began to enjoy his company. With him she could be natural. She knew he was afraid of her, that he hated her. But she also knew she could amuse him.
She visited him and Marvina, and was openly affectionate with the girl, so that Marvina quite adored her. And always she brought one of her children, sometimes more.
The prosperity of the shops assured her quite a respectable income, which she administered shrewdly, for she had a natural business acumen. The rest of her money reposed in one of Joshua’s banks, and brought in a pleasant interest. She had even bought some land, on Stuart’s advice, and had sold it at a profit.
There was much reason for her contentment, then. If her mind continually schemed and plotted, the evidence was not yet. Her great health and vitality made her enjoy life, enjoy every day, as no “truly virtuous” woman would have enjoyed it.
She enjoyed these Sunday afternoons when Angus read to her for hours after an enormous, well-served, well-cooked dinner. Sometimes she drowsed; she would lean her red head back on the pillows, and smile softly in her half-dreams. She was mistress of every situation.
She did not drowse today. The novel was too exciting, and the incongruity of Angus reading the purple passages too amusing.
She watched him, grinning, as he read:
“And now, attired for the night in a loose white silken robe, which revealed all the pearly and innocent wantonness of her limbs, Lady Isobelle moved to her casement and looked down upon the moonlit gardens. Her black hair flowed over her marble shoulders in streams of ebony. She flung open the casement, and the moonlight streamed in silver fire over the gentle roundness of her half-concealed breasts. She raised her eyes to the stars, and implored aloud: ‘Let him not come to me tonight, dear loved ones who guard my purity and my honor, for surely I cannot resist him further!’
“But, alas, there was a quick and furtive knock upon her chamber door, and instantly it was flung open, for this lovely and unsuspecting creature had neglected to lock the last barrier which protected her from the lustfulness of her suitor, who, despising her defenseless state, and knowing that no cry of hers would arouse her sleeping sister, and understanding that never, never, would she allow that sister to suspect that her adored husband was in licentious pursuit of the gentle and unprotected Lady Isobelle, had audaciously taken advantage of all these things. He saw her as she cowered in the draperies of the moonlit casement, palpitating like a fawn at bay, all her limbs shining through the diaphanous fabric of her single garment, her head thrown back, her lovely breast revealed, her face as white as snow. With a single savage moan, he was upon her, pressing his hot lips deeply into her lips, her throat, h
er bosom, while she lay in his arms, fainting and sobbing under her breath, unable to resist him. When he lifted her in one sweep, and moved towards the bed, she knew no more.”
Angus paused, to turn a page. His movements were quiet and abstracted. He cleared his throat, automatically, for he had been reading for hours of the pursuit and seduction of the desperate and defenseless Lady Isobelle. His pale and austere countenance was like a statue’s, changelessly reserved and dignified, his regard unhurried. His long thin figure, in its funeral black broadcloth, aroused Janie’s risibilities. She began to chuckle.
He glanced at her with cool surprise. “That is the end of the chapter, Mama. Shall I begin another?”
But Janie was convulsed with mirth. She flung back her head and screamed. Angus watched her, bewildered. “Was it amusing, Mama?” he asked, with a slight ruffling of his thick dark brows. He glanced down at the book, uncertainly, and with disapproval. Janie’s convulsions increased.
She looked almost young as she laughed without restraint. The years had sharpened her features, made them more lividly vicious in color and contour. But her eyes were still vivaciously green and restless and glittering, her hair still undimmed (though secretly assisted), her airs and graces still lively. She wore a dark green velvet peignoir, with a white lacy shawl over her shoulders, and her throat and hands sparkled with many jewels.
“Oh, go on with you, Angus, you stone of a man!” she cried at last, when she could get her breath. “My God, you are past nineteen, and you know no more than a chick in its shell! Good heavens, lad, give me my smelling salts. You’ve fair choked me!”
Angus, bewildered, brought her the jewelled vial of smelling salts from her dressing table. He removed the stopper, gravely, and courteously handed the bottle to his mother. She sniffed, strangled on the strong perfumed fumes, sniffed again, laughed, shook her head, and replaced the stopper. She sank back against her cushions, exhausted with her merriment, and stared at him with bright hard speculation.