Sebastian also stood at the table, his face impervious. He knew he would not receive a kiss from his mother, and probably not even a smile. He had trained himself not to feel too much pain. A sunbeam struck his brown hair and made a reddish halo over its curls and brought out yellow sparkles in his eyes. He was aware that his mother had a profound aversion to him. He had persuaded himself that it was because of some defect in his character, and he was always trying to discover what it was. Sometimes he was quite over-whelmed by guilt. If his mother did not love him as she loved his brother and sister, then it was his fault.
As Patricia affectionately adjusted the bow on Nicole’s head, the child studied the mother’s attire; she thought the long string of beads was ridiculous, clinking at the knees like that, and rattling as it swung. But as Papa had given it to Mama, it did not receive a word of criticism. She looked at the simulated spats, and her small thick nose wrinkled disapprovingly. Patricia’s heavy scent discomfited her. But she smiled amiably at her mother, for she was a courteous child by nature. Nicholas, in the meantime, was excitedly jabbering about the new train, and tugging at his mother’s arm for her complete attention.
“You’ll wrinkle my cape, sweetheart,” she said, patting him on his hot twitching cheek. But he clung to her as a squirrel clings to a branch swinging. “Mama! Mama!” he shrieked. “It’s got a bell—ting-ting! Ting-ting! Look, look!” His agate eyes, so like Patricia’s, bulged.
“Wonderful, dear,” said Patricia with genuine fondness. Such a delightful little fellow, so lively, so endearing! So unlike … Her glance fell on the silent Sebastian and her expression changed to one of cold malevolence. Here was the cause of her never-ending sorrow, her unassuaged grief, her thwarted hunger, her renunciation of the only creature she had ever passionately loved. His insistence on being born would never be forgiven by her, for he had destroyed her happiness and left her wedded to a man she often detested or, at best, contemptuously endured. Her love for Lionel was as tumultuously alive in her as ever, and this intruder had parted her from all she had ever wanted.
Sebastian saw that malign glance and looked aside, his young heart trembling with pain. Patricia said nothing to him this morning. She kissed the twins gently, told them to be “good,” and smiled at Miss Flowers, a small wiry little woman who Patricia sometimes thought resembled a starved bird. The governess smiled in an attempt at friendliness, though she had nothing but envious scorn for the other woman. Such an idle, useless, silly thing, with her airs and graces, and so unworthily rich, too! It just was not fair.
Nicole, young as she was, was sorry for her mother even though she did not know why. Acute of eye and mind, she only knew that Patricia was always tense and nervous and without ease, especially when her husband was present.
After Patricia had left, Nicole sat at the table again, and quickly leaned across it and patted Sebastian’s hand in a motherly gesture of comfort. “Stop that, Nicole!” cried Miss Flowers. “Your brother is difficult enough without your pampering! Sebastian, are you being deliberately stupid, or is it natural?”
Nicole said with staid calm, “It’s you who’s stupid, not Bastie.”
“Don’t you call him ‘Bastie’!” shouted Miss Flowers with fury. “Your mama doesn’t like it! What a disobedient, obstinate child you are, to be sure! Perhaps that’s because you are so plain!”
Nicole smiled; her little face suddenly bloomed with dimples, and the gray eyes were brilliant. “Mama thinks I am beautiful,” she said. Miss Flowers seethed. “Never mind,” said Nicole. “I know I look like a liver dumpling.” There were times when she could be quite tolerant.
“You’re lovely,” said Sebastian with a look of devotion. “Your eyes, Nickie—they look like one of Mama’s crystals. All shiny.”
Nicholas rushed to the table, banging against it and causing the books and papers to leap. “Nickie! Play with my train.” He jumped up and down, and tugged at his sister’s arm. She looked down at him like an indulgent mother. “Run away, Nick, dear. I’m busy with my book.”
Nicholas promptly thrust out his arm and swept books to the floor and shrieked. “Nickie, come!”
Nicole sighed. She climbed down from her chair, picked up the train, and followed by her leaping brother, went into his bedroom, carefully closing the door after her. She ruffled her twin’s disordered hair. “What a trial you are,” she said, and began to play with the toy. Nicholas flung himself on his knees, screaming, with excitement, and pushed the train up and down on the polished floor while Nicole watched with bored affection. But Sebastian needed quiet for his lessons. She thought about her mother and frowned. She hoped Mama wouldn’t be too “tired” after the luncheon with the ladies. Nicole knew all about Patricia and had developed her own euphemisms.
Patricia went slowly down the long and narrow staircases. The house was not totally quiet. Even the May sunlight was bleak and flat here, as it was stringently admitted through the little windows. Though the day was warm, the air in the huge house was chilly, and Patricia shivered. Black depression crept over her like a fog. She was not yet twenty-seven, but she felt that her life was over. Her eyes filled with tears. On the last step of the stairs she hesitated, shivering. Then she tiptoed into the dining room, hesitated again, and finally opened a cabinet and helped herself to a large glass of Patrick’s potent burgundy. She swallowed slowly, her eyes closed, waiting for the warmth to gather in her vitals. When it did, at last, she went to the garage for her electric automobile and drove away.
The Schofield house, where her new “best friend” lived, was not far away, and Patricia trundled there in a warming haze. Elizabeth Schofield was a small blond girl, five years Patricia’s junior. Elizabeth’s parents lived in a very modern house, “Greek restoration,” all white brick with white pillars and tastefully furnished, which inspired both Patricia’s envy and admiration. What Elizabeth’s father did was a subject for speculation in Belleville. He had “offices,” but what his occupation was, no one seemed to know exactly. It was enough for Belleville, however, that he was apparently rich and had a number of servants and a fine new Cadillac, and his wife, a fashionable woman, was a socialite. Elizabeth herself had the face of a wicked child, at once innocent and evil, and her gossip was charmingly malicious. Winking at the other young ladies after Patricia had had two small glasses of sherry, she would add a large measure of strong bourbon to the succeeding ones. Patricia’s subsequent indiscretions at the luncheon table proved unfailingly amusing.
She would always refer to Jason as “that oaf I’m married to,” and tell of his more private ineptitudes. A luncheon with Patricia served for giggling discussion for at least a week. Oddly enough, Elizabeth’s father would listen attentively, and often question his daughter with shrewdness. Patrick Mulligan and Clementine Lindon were the only ones who had some idea of Mr. Schofield’s activities. Clementine would refer to him as “that confidence man” to her dear trusted friend. But Mr. Schofield was a regular visitor to her establishment and so she would say nothing more even to Patrick, who was under the impression that Mr. Schofield was a legal thief. Daniel Dugan, his nephew, was less amiable on the subject, but said nothing much to his uncle. He merely watched alertly. He had heard of Mr. Schofield in Philadelphia and New York. Mr. Schofield had offices there, too, equally as ambiguous. What he was doing in this backwater was a matter on which Daniel speculated to himself.
Patricia rarely remembered her return home; she only knew that she was sleepy and relieved of her chronic suffering. She would leave her automobile in front of the house, stagger inside, sway up the stairs to her room, and there throw herself on her bed to fall into a heavy slumber. A few hours later she would awaken in a state of fierce hysteria with recriminations of all and sundry, particularly her father and her husband. There would be an odor of Sen-Sen about her. Strangely enough, neither Patrick nor Jason was suspicious. Patricia was careful. Her clothes were always neat, even if her face was drawn and haggard and her eyes red and sore from tears unco
nsciously shed during her drunken sleep. She never recalled what she had said at the luncheon, except that the occasion had been pleasant. As for Patrick and Jason, they would murmur together solicitously about Patricia’s tenuous health and her too-acute sensitivity, and treat her with tenderness.
Each morning, on his rounds at the resort, Jason went into Lionel’s office, where he was always greeted with the old smiling affection. Only lately had a peculiar flicker briefly appeared in Lionel’s lupine yellow eyes. It was not there all the time, and Jason never noticed.
Jason dutifully inquired about his sister, Joan. As always, Lionel’s face lighted at the mention of his wife’s name. Joan was splendid, even after five years of marriage. Joan was faultless in every way. Jason listened with a smile. He liked Lionel’s offices, even if unlike his own. They were spare but attractive, all gleaming wood floor and light airy draperies and brass electric lamps. The room held an astringent if agreeable odor that seemed to emanate from Lionel himself.
Jason sat down, a massive figure in his mourning black, and he and Lionel discussed business matters. Lionel had taken to smoking a pipe, and he leaned back in his swivel chair and contemplated the smoke. Because of the warmth of the day, he had removed his coat and sat in his fine percale white shirtsleeves, though he had not loosened his narrow red tie, only a few shades darker than his fiery hair. His black silk vest, patterned and rich, was neatly buttoned, and a gold watch chain twinkled over his stomach. Despite his snub nose and freckles, his native appearance of compact elegance had increased greatly. His hands were quick and restless and stroked a folded newspaper on his desk as he talked with Jason.
“We’re having a little trouble again, I hear, with Mr. and Mrs. Adrian Schlecter, Jason, in Suite 5-G.”
“Yes. I found a sheaf of their complaints on my desk this morning. I’m getting exasperated with them. We’ve told them over and over that they can’t bring their little grandsons here except at Christmas. I’m about ready to tell them to get out—now—and not come back. I showed them what the oldest grandson did to the cabinets in the living room of the suite, and what another one did to the expensive French wallpaper in his bedroom. ‘Only dear little children,’ Mrs. Schlecter said, with that foolish grin of hers. She didn’t offer to pay for the damage, though. I reminded her that we had made a concession in letting those damned kids here for Easter, and that she could not entertain them again. She then accused me of ‘not loving the little ones.’”
“They’re our most generous guests,” said Lionel thoughtfully. “And they have the most expensive suite and stay here most of the year. They give good tips, too.”
“We’re running a hotel for adults,” said Jason. “Except at Christmas, we don’t want our guests annoyed by kids. The Ipswich House is regarded as a retreat.”
Lionel laughed. “Especially for gentlemen who’ve had enough of their wives for a while.”
Jason frowned. He was never at ease even with these discreet arrangements. “What the hell,” Patrick had said. “Jase, it’s not our business, provided they behave themselves and act … decorously. Is that the word? Yes. A gentleman has a right to bring a female guest, if the gentlemen and the ladies always occupy separate rooms and are sufficiently discreet. If they … ah … visit their friends in their rooms, whose affair is that?” Patrick had chuckled. “Human nature. You’ll never be able to outlaw that, Jase, not even with the blue laws here. Anyway, they always leave the bedroom or sitting-room doors open.”
“Until midnight,” Jason had said.
Patrick had coughed. “Well, they don’t want their neighbors to be disturbed by … conversation. Besides, over half our guests are legally married.”
“Even if they seem to have a new wife every year, some of them.”
“Well …” Patrick had spread his hands and had smiled.
“People talk, Mr. Mulligan.” Jason still called him that.
“It doesn’t keep the guests away. I haven’t heard our shopkeepers complain, either.” He had patted Jason’s shoulder. “Never mind. The new hotel we’re building will be a family one—rugged and simple. Come on, Jase. This hotel here is a happy place.”
“I feel like a whoremaster,” Jason had grumbled, and Patrick had laughed. “Irish priggishness,” he had commented. “We may all be devout Catholics, but there’s a lot of Calvinism in us, too. That makes sin even more interesting.”
Today Jason said to Lionel, “Mrs. Schlecter has another complaint. She said their neighbors were roistering all night and kept her and her husband awake to all hours. When I checked, I found there were two married couples quietly enjoying an after-dinner drink together in their sitting room. At eight o’clock. But Mrs. Schlecter likes to go to bed at eight to be ‘up with the dear caroling birdies,’ as she says. I told her that other neighbors object to her singing at four or five A.M. Before God gets up. She then said something about sinful people wasting God’s blessed time.”
“I know,” said Lionel. “She has tried to wheedle the room-service waiters to bring breakfast for her and her husband at five, an hour before the kitchen is even open. I suggested she have sandwiches wrapped to take upstairs after dinner, and she agreed, then wanted a hot plate to make coffee in her room. That, I said, was forbidden. I’m more tactful than you, Jason. I said the fire department has rules and we can’t violate them.”
“I’m ready to throw them out.”
Lionel examined his pipe. “They bring at least six other couples here, friends, who come here every year with them. That would be a loss of several thousand a month, if they all marched out and never came back again.” He looked at Jason. “My business is feeding the guests. Just don’t be too rigid.”
While Jason fumed, Lionel opened his newspaper. “Look at this,” he said. “Just when we wanted to install oil heat instead of coal, Washington warns—they’re always warning—that our oil resources will be exhausted by 1930. And coal soon after.”
“We should heat with wood?”
Lionel chuckled. “And here’s another thing. Natural gas, according to them, is already running short. I’ve noticed the heat did go down several times in the gas stoves this winter. Another funny thing. When my men went down to the markets this morning for supplies, they were told the last delivery of sugar, meat, and butter was a third less than two weeks ago. And they were offered graham flour instead of the white. They couldn’t get a full supply of ham and bacon, either.”
Something stirred darkly in Jason’s mind, something old Bernard had said once. Jason could not remember. “The railroads aren’t on strike again.”
“No. But it’s funny. Well, probably nothing to worry about. Time we got back to work.”
Jason encountered Daniel Dugan in the lower hall. Daniel smiled at him and said, “Carrying the world on your shoulders again, Jason?”
Jason shrugged. He still did not trust or like Daniel. They exchanged a few casual remarks. Daniel said, “We’re doing better business this year than last, for this time of the year. But prices of everything are going up, I see.”
“They usually do,” said Jason, and went to his own offices. The glory of the May day was no longer glorious to him. He sat thinking at his desk for a long time and came to himself with a heavy feeling of depression. What was it that Bernard had said long ago? “Taxes are garnered for wars, and that’s really the thought behind that new Sixteenth Amendment, the federal income tax. Mark my words. Taxes mean wars and tyranny. Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. That’s the way the big boys get power—through wars and taxes. Power bought with blood and confiscation. I know my history.”
Well, thought Jason, taxes won’t bother me. I’m not a rich man. And war with whom? America won’t ever engage in foreign wars. We’ve got too much sense. And Washington’s too small and feeble to push us into one.
Jason settled down to the papers on his desk. More and more guests were arriving every day. Even in his distant offices Jason could hear the hubbub of new arrivals and the sound of automobi
les on the drive. He worked steadily until six, when he was interrupted by the assistant manager, who did all the hiring and, when necessary, the discharging. Edward Griswold was an earnest young man, dedicated to his employers. There was something celibate about him. He talked only business, and conducted his work in privacy, usually without consulting anyone. Therefore, Jason was surprised when Edward knocked apologetically at his door and then entered. “Mr. Garrity. We have a problem.”
“When didn’t we have?” asked Jason wearily. He wanted to go home for dinner. The day had been arduous. It was his duty to greet the more important guests on arrival, and there had been a number of them today and there had been some dissatisfaction about assigned rooms and suites. Jason, never at ease, as was Lionel, had had to keep his temper, and that had been hard. “What do you want, Eddie?”
“We advertised for a first-class cook,” said Mr. Griswold. “Old Emil, our best, has given us notice for the first of June. We put advertisements in all the newspapers, in Philadelphia and New York.” He paused. “Only the best, we stated. Experienced in French cooking. We have an applicant, only one qualified. The others were … well, not up to it.” Mr. Griswold had borrowed some English phrases from his reading of Victorian novels.
“You have a qualified applicant? Well, why don’t you hire him? What has it to do with me? That’s your job, Eddie.”
“That’s the problem.” He fell into gloom. “The only one qualified, and he has references from Delmonico’s and the Waldorf in New York, excellent references. The only thing … I’m afraid everyone in the kitchen will quit if I hire him.”