“Expected you earlier, Jason,” said Patrick. He thought it was a grand sight, the big dark man and his children together.
“I visited Da’s grave,” said Jason.
“Oh,” said Patrick, and gave his son-in-law a sharp and searching look. So, the bucko had been annoyed or upset about something today and had gone to the grave for some comfort, then. Patrick waited for some hint of this, but Jason was disentangling himself from Nicholas’ fervid grip and it appeared to take all his attention. Patrick said, “And where’s Patricia?”
“She had a migraine,” said Jason.
Nicholas clung to his knees, still jabbering. Then Nicole firmly pulled him off. “Enough,” she said. “Be quiet, Nick.” Instantly the little boy sucked in his breath and was still, though he gave the impression of vibrating like a struck violin string.
“She gets them too often,” said the concerned Patrick.
“Yes. I tried to persuade her that we shouldn’t go to Lionel and Joan’s tonight, but she insisted.”
“Always mannerly,” said Patrick. “And considerate.” But he frowned a little. He was fond of Lionel, trusted him and appreciated his acumen and many talents, but he did not like the beautiful Joan, with her misleading composure and apparent serenity. He did not find them soothing; he had come to the conclusion that “that angelic lady has more to her than seems, and it’s not good, I’m thinking.” He had guessed long ago that Joan had nothing but remote derision for Patricia, and this offended him. When Patricia was particularly inane, Joan’s heavenly blue eyes would seek out Lionel’s, and for an instant or two the expression in them was not so celestial. Patrick did not think his daughter inane; he thought her childlike and trusting. Joan, he was now convinced, was neither; once Mrs. Lindon had expressed her opinion to him that Joan was spiritually corrupt, and though he had been horrified at this remark, he had lately almost come to believe it. Always moved by feminine beauty, he had told himself that Lionel had corrupted her, if corrupted she was. As for Lionel, Patrick genially accepted his corruption; most men were so, except Jason, of course.
The two men then remarked on the increase of early arrivals this year at Ipswich House. Jason mentioned Lionel’s information that food supplies had been short lately. Patrick frowned. “I wonder what’s up,” he said. “Heard the farmers were doing well, and there’s lots of beef and pork and butter. Maybe our suppliers haven’t been ordering enough.”
“Maybe,” said Jason. Miss Flowers then appeared to summon the children for their supper in the little dining room connected with the nursery, and so Jason had no time to express his amorphous uneasiness.
“Tired, Jase?” asked Patrick as they went downstairs together.
“A little. The new arrivals were pettish, more so than usual.”
Patrick chortled. “They always are. You’ve got to have patience.”
“I’m not as tolerant as you, Mr. Mulligan.”
“And that I know, lad. You never were.” On the bottom step he put his hand affectionately on Jason’s arm. “When you’re my age, nothing much will rile you. I promise. How was my darling Molly last night?”
“Astringent—as usual.”
Patrick nodded. “Irish tongues, like knives. All Irish women have them. I love that colleen. Danny’s very lucky, for all her sharpness. But a great heart it is she has, a great heart. Lovely.”
Patrick went into the dining room and Jason went to the library to wait for Patricia and to read his newspaper. He saw an inconspicuous item: The French government had ordered early military maneuvers and were increasing the draft of young men. Britain had ordered ten new warships. The Balkans were again in an uproar, but then, when were they not? Czar Nicholas had addressed the Duma yesterday in “a closed session.” But when were the Russians, always ambiguous and full of mystery, ever candid with anyone? Winston Churchill, the item added, was inspecting the Dardanelles at the government’s request. Well, the mighty British Empire was always vigilant. Nothing sinister there. The exiled Communist, Lenin, was in Germany at the present time, and so was his friend Trotsky. The German kaiser was not noted for his intelligence; none of the Hanovers were, which included the present King of England, George V, another grandson of the late Queen Victoria who had not been particularly bright.
To cover his uneasiness, Jason turned to more conspicuous items in the newspaper. The rift between President Taft and Theodore Roosevelt was becoming wider. Teddy was roaring about the country giving flaming speeches concerning his “New Nationalism.” “I stand for the Square Deal!” In Cleveland he had announced that he was a candidate for the presidency. He had scornful words for Elihu Root, who had “given” the nomination to President Taft at the Republican convention. The Progressive party, Teddy’s own, had nominated Mr. Roosevelt. Taft was incensed. “I have been a man of straw long enough!” he declared with unusual fervor. Politics, thought Jason. Roosevelt had divided the Republican party; if he was not its candidate, then, by God, he would stop Taft.
Wilson, thought Jason. He did not know why he felt a thrill of something like fear. Patricia then entered, pulling on her gloves, and he stood up. She looked fresh and glowing, he was happy to see. He did not know that the slight rosiness of her cheeks and lips was not her own, but had been applied with a careful piece of cotton. Only her eyes remained slightly reddened and swollen. The veil on her pink velvet hat mostly concealed this, however. She wore a very Parisian dress, which Jason had not seen before, of gray silk, tight of skirt, and draped with silver bugle beads over the bodice. She had put on her aquamarines, and a full capelet of white fox was flung over her shoulders. If her figure was too meager, she did have style and her waist was flexible and slender. Jason regarded her with loving admiration. “How pretty you look, Patricia,” he said. “Is the headache gone?”
But she cried in anger, “Oh, Jason, how could you! You didn’t change; still in that old black serge, and you haven’t even shaved tonight!”
“What of it? It’s only Lionel and Joan. No other guests tonight.”
“But how insulting to your … host!”
“For God’s sake, Patricia! I see Lionel every day, and he’s only family, as is Joan.”
“You can be sure Lionel’s changed!”
Jason smiled indulgently. “Well, he’s always ‘the glass of fashion,’ always was even when he had only two dollars to rub together.”
“He’s elegant!”
“Always was.” Jason held out his arm to his wife, but she brushed by him in a pet. She refused his help in getting into the automobile, pushing aside his hand. The exceedingly tight skirt pulled up on her leg and showed the thin and nearly shapeless calf. Jason thought it indecent. Women’s fashions! It wouldn’t be long before they displayed their knees, and knees were unsightly objects.
The long mauve twilight had settled over the little city, and the mountains had turned a dull plum. Patricia held her hat in the nimble breeze. “I do wish you’d put up the top, Jason. That wind is blowing my hair about, and if my hat wasn’t pinned on, it would blow away.” She smelled of lilacs and face powder. Jason was silent; he was listening. In the distance an organ-grinder was grating out an unfamiliar air. It had a sorrowful and poignant sound. “You know music so well, Patricia. What is that tune?”
“Oh, Jason, you are so ignorant! If only you would go more often to concerts with me in Philadelphia, and the opera. But no. Always business, always some excuse. Lionel takes even Joan, and she a cripple.” Patricia paused, seething again. “That’s the Miserere.”
“Miserable?” said Jason, controlling his temper.
“Not quite, for heaven’s sake. It’s a mourning song, in a way. The Catholic Church uses it sometimes, at a different tempo. A sort of tolling.”
A mourning song. Jason listened, and it seemed to echo the pain in his chest. The city darkened; a lamplighter was running about like a cricket, attending to the streetlamps. The houses Jason drove by looked shut and ominous. What nonsense. He was seeing omens everyw
here. There was no sound just now but of that majestic, slow, and lost music echoing through the quiet streets. Jason felt cold. He was in no mood for Lionel and Joan tonight. He thought of his grandfather and the old shack on the derelict street where he had spent his wretched childhood. All at once that little house seemed, to Jason … What? Safe. Now, what the hell do I mean by that? he thought. He had never remembered it before without gloom, but suddenly it possessed peace, in spite of the hunger and dire poverty.
“I suppose you didn’t even notice you got a letter today from your brother, the priest,” said Patricia. “It was on the hall table in the tray, where all mail is put.”
“Jack?” Jason considered. “No. I just passed the table. I didn’t look.”
“You are the most unobservant person I ever knew! Really, Jason. Do slow down. We are approaching their house.”
They were now in the newer part of the city, quite close to the mountains, which had become black shadows against a darkly starred sky. Patricia looked about her with her usual umbrage and envy. Every house was new, modern, attractive, set on wide lawns with old trees which had been carefully preserved. The houses were not mansions; they were solid-middle-class. “New money,” Mrs. Lindon had called it. But they had no wooden fretwork, no tall narrow windows, and, in most cases, no verandas. That was the latest style—no verandas, no porches. They had a light look, which Jason thought seemed impermanent, even frivolous. Well, it was a new age; things did change.
The Nolan house was set back from the street, which was wider than the older streets in Belleville. Mr. Schultz’ architect had been consulted by Lionel and Joan, and the building was handsome, of pale rose brick with white doors and shutters. The front door was embellished by shallow wide steps and pale polished stone. On each side was a slender wooden column, painted white, which gave the house a slight Regency air. The windows were quite large and glimmered with the light of two or three electric chandeliers. Patricia thought of her father’s house and almost cried. What a struggle she had had to make Patrick install electricity! “Harsh? What do you mean, Dada? You want that horrible old gaslight still, so smelly, so dangerous?”
A neat little maid of some fourteen years opened the door. She wore a black dress and a frilled white apron and cap and had the innocent face of a young colt. Jason smiled at her, but Patricia rustled past with a haughty uplifted face as if the girl was not human. Lionel came into the hall, smiling, in a dark gray suit excellently cut, his lean figure like that of a ballet dancer, his red hair smoothly combed into glistening waves, his gray tie pierced by a modest diamond pin, his linen immaculate. At the sight of him Patricia’s heart lurched, as always, with deep pain mingled with aching joy, and her lips trembled, remembering. The little maid took her hat and her cape and Jason’s deplorably battered fedora.
“Lionel!” said Patricia, as if it had been years since she had seen him. She gave him her hand. He held it for a long moment, and her flesh had a powerful desire to become one with his. He pressed her fingers, then turned to Jason and struck him affectionately on the shoulder. “Nice night, isn’t it?” he said in the most beloved voice in the world to Patricia. Her face was transformed; it had become so radiant that she was almost pretty. While Jason and Lionel exchanged some casual remarks, she stared at Lionel fixedly, until Lionel became aware of her gaze and, taking her elbow, led her into the parlor, where Joan was waiting.
Here was no heavy mahogany or walnut furniture. It was all delicate French reproductions, upholstered in pastel colors, the lamps of crystal or subdued gilt, the rugs good if imitation Aubussons, the draperies airy and fresh, and spring flowers everywhere in crystal vases. There was a faint flowery scent in the warm air, and apple wood burned in the marble fireplace. An exceptionally fine print of a Madonna and Child hung above the mantel, on which stood an ormolu clock.
In a lady chair near the fire sat Joan, beautiful in a blue velvet robe embroidered in gold. She looked like a child perched there; her masses of gleaming black hair were knotted in a classical fashion, but tendrils had escaped to frame her perfect face, giving her an aspect of innocence and defenselessness. But there was nothing defenseless in the large dark blue eyes. They were keenly aware and observant. Her little white hands were folded in her lap.
Lionel, on his wedding night, had been delighted to discover that Joan’s legs were not twisted or shriveled, but due to Kate’s assiduous massaging were perfectly formed and round and white, even if small and without strength. They could have belonged to a child, the knees dimpled and smooth; the toes rosy. Patricia, even as she kissed Joan’s cheek, was filled with resentment of her sister-in-law’s dazzling appearance, and seething with envy of the house and its furnishings.
“What an exquisite dress,” said Joan in her soft and fluting voice. “Paris, no doubt.”
“Yes. Dada bought it for me in New York.” At least, thought Patricia, it was more expensive than that robe she’s wearing. Belleville!
Joan smiled. She never talked very much; her features were expressive enough, but she never revealed her emotions or thoughts except to Lionel. She said, “And how are the dear children?”
“Splendid,” said Patricia. “The twins are adorable. Nicole said to me, yesterday, ‘Mama, you’re more stylish than the ladies in Harpers Bazaar!’ She sees so much, the dear little thing. At her age, too. And Nicholas! He is so artistic. He draws all the time and colors with crayons. Miss Flowers says he’s very gifted. An artist in the family! I always wanted to paint, to do something creative.”
Joan’s mouth lifted in a gentle smile. “And Sebastian?” The smile was somewhat malicious.
Patricia’s face changed, became almost ugly. “Sebastian? Oh. He does well enough, though Miss Flowers thinks he is very slow. I do hope he has all his wits. So unlike the twins. He never chatters like Nicholas, who just bubbles with ideas and observations. Did I tell you what Nicholas said to me a week ago?”
“I believe you did,” said Joan. “He is always talking, isn’t he?” Her tone was neutral, but Patricia flushed. How she hated this miserable cripple who had stolen Lionel on the “rebound”! It was just like her to favor Sebastian over the twins, Sebastian, who rarely remarked on anything and who was so very sly. One never knew what was in his mind, if anything. Come to think of it, thought Patricia, annoyed, he resembles his dear auntie, Joan. How I should like to tell this cripple that she isn’t his aunt at all, but his stepmother! The thought made Patricia smile, and the smile was not attractive. Joan saw it and perceptively had an idea what had inspired it. She was amused, though her face remained bland. But her heart, never attuned to anyone but Lionel, and now Sebastian, was not calm at all. What could this fool know about the dear child, that most loved child? Joan felt that Sebastian was her own, for he was Lionel’s, and the thought of him under Patricia’s influence angered and outraged Joan, though her face remained inscrutable in its smoothness.
“Sherry, Patricia?” Lionel was saying.
Patricia seated herself on the other side of the fire and looked up at Lionel, and he was embarrassed at the slavish adoration of him in her eyes, her attempt to communicate that adoration. “Always sherry,” she said. “I take nothing stronger, you know. I don’t approve of it.”
Lionel nodded. “Joan?”
“Whiskey, love, as usual, with a very little water.” Patricia wrinkled her nose in a condescending fashion. Lionel, who knew all about Patricia, added whiskey to the sherry. Then Lionel poured whiskey for himself and Jason, who had seated himself at a little distance. He had kissed his sister mechanically. He was no longer enchanted by her. He thought his friend Lionel could have done much better than Joan, who could not be a real wife to him. He would have been amazed, and aghast, to know of Lionel’s and Joan’s passionate and intoxicated coupling, the ecstasy, the joy, the becoming of one flesh, body, and spirit, the profound rapture and sweetness, the unshakable faithfulness. He had never known this with Patricia, and suspected there was something missing in his life, but
he did not know what it was. He was convinced that true ladies possessed no passion. That was reserved for immoral women, of whom he knew almost nothing.
Lionel sat near Jason. “I heard, before I left the office, that you had hired a nigger as chef,” he said. “I thought that was Griswold’s job, and that he would report such an applicant to me. I do have charge of the kitchens, you know, friend.”
Jason’s mouth tightened. “True. You do have. But Eddie had looked for you. You weren’t around just then, and this needed immediate attention.” He paused. Jason hated to confront anyone with unpleasant facts, especially not Lionel, who was like a brother. “And I am manager, you know … friend.” He regretted the mimicry immediately, but he was disturbed tonight and did not quite know why.
Lionel made an eloquent gesture of submission. Joan had heard this, and while she smiled at Patricia, she began to listen.
“Patterson has credentials of the very best,” Jason continued. “We’re lucky to get him.”
“I read them, after you’d left.”
“Then you know.” Jason’s deep voice became hard. “And I object to Patterson being called a ‘nigger.’ He is an educated gentleman.”
“But a Negro, just the same.”
“What the hell has that to do with it?” asked Jason. “I remember something Saul Weitzman told Da, that the Jews were admonished to treat the stranger in their midst with kindness, ‘for you were strangers in Egypt, also.’” He paused. “Coming down to it, we’re all strangers to each other. Da used to say that no man had a friend, and I’m beginning to believe it.”
Patricia had heard. She exclaimed, “Oh, that awful old Jew! He caused your grandfather’s death, Jason! Have you forgotten that?”