And as he stood there, becoming colder and colder each moment, feeling heavier and sicker, the light dying out of him like a febrile flame that had had very little to feed upon, Amy’s face dimmed, dissolved, passed away. And for the first time another face stood before his. The face of May Sessions.
He remembered now, with a sort of profound shock, that she had looked at him provocatively, challengingly, admiringly. She had looked at him as the whores he had frequented had looked at him. So familiar had been that glance that he had passed it over, mechanically. But now it returned, significant. It had not been the look of a pretty woman who merely wanted to flirt: it had been full of desire and invitation. She had smiled and coquetted, she had simpered behind her fan, she had laughed at him and prodded him and shaken her ringlets at him. When he had stared at her fixedly, he had been surprised to see her blush like a schoolgirl, for all her sophistication. Her face had been the face of a woman seized with hunger.
“By God,” he said slowly and heavily, aloud, “I could have her if I wanted her.”
And then he had stood there, gazing blindly out into the night, for a long time.
When he finally moved, it seemed to him that his flesh had frozen, become stiff and old, that something had twisted upward like a wisp of smoke in him, and had vanished. Slowly, as if propelled against his will, he went to his desk, and picked up the letter he had written to Gregory Sessions. He turned it over in his hands, over and over, dully, with empty eyes and a face that was suddenly sunken and full of furrows and white dents. And then he picked up the candle in one hand and ignited the letter. He held it, staring at it, while it was being consumed, until it was but an edge of whiteness rimmed with charcoal. He put down the candle, but still held that edge. Then he dropped it, watched it flutter to the floor.
He took a few turns up and down the room, lightly, almost staggeringly. It was at that time that his mother knocked at his door, and he had stood beside the table, beside the murdering candle, listening, breathless, hoping she would go away. And she had peered through the keyhole, seeing his hanging hand, that eloquent hand that said everything his mouth would never say to any one.
CHAPTER XXII
On the third day Gregory Sessions said to himself: “He will not come. He has decided against her.”
He looked at Amy’s serene smile and tranquil expression, and he knew that she had no suspicion as yet. But a week passed, two weeks, three weeks, and the smile became slight and automatic, and when she thought herself unobserved her expression was bewildered and pinched. At the end of a month, when spring became summer and a pall of heat lay over the valley, Amy’s face had lost its color, become white and translucent as a moonstone. She seemed to lose vivacity and spirit, and though she never complained, Gregory noticed that she moved slowly and heavily, as though weighted down, and that she frequently stood at the windows that looked out on the drive. But if anything, her smile was sweeter, if more uncertain, and her low, steadfast voice was gentler. May uneasily insisted upon Amy accompanying her on drives and small social visits, and with a sort of anxious remorse, tried many expedients to restore life and pleasure to the stricken girl.
No one mentioned Ernest’s name. When Gregory mentioned Barbour & Bouchard, he carefully skirted about that name, sometimes going into elaborate circumlocutions. Had Amy been of a suspicious nature, she would have suspected something, but being unsuspicious, it was not hard to deceive her. May and Gregory aligned themselves together to save the girl’s “face.” If May felt some natural feminine contempt that her young cousin had not been able to bewitch a man into forgetting her fortuneless state, she did not show it by the slightest glance or word. Being intelligent, she was able to achieve the nice balance of forcing Amy out on calls with her and hiding her real pity and regret. She cleverly scolded Amy for her pale face and “vapors,” irritably demanded to know the reason, fretted and upbraided with great skill. Gregory, following her clue, threatened the doctor, bought extract of iron in a large bottle, pretended annoyance. And Amy, looking at them with her bewildered eyes, betrayed, heart-breakingly, the piteous relief she felt that they had not suspected her humiliation.
Alone, or with May, Gregory cursed Ernest with passion and hatred. He swore that he would never permit him to enter his house again, that he was a low-born upstart possessed by a Napoleonic devil, a nincompoop without culture or civility or respectability, a mere presumptuous, impudent and uneducated peasant. And to think that a man like this dared repudiate Amy, whose great-grandfather had been a cousin of the Virginia Fairfaxes, an officer on Washington’s staff, a signer of the Declaration of Independence, a descendant of the Earl of Sussex! It was intolerable! He, Gregory, no longer believed in democracy: democracies exalted no men, but levelled the highest to the state of the lowest. “The common denominator of the barnyard,” he said. In democracies, one’s inferiors not only dared aspire to climb to one’s elevation, but arriving there, insulted one, spat in one’s face. Such a system of government was insupportable, to those who were by right of birth, fortune and culture entitled to occupy the high places in peace. He expressed longings for England, where a nice adjustment had been made centuries before, and where no one had the audacity to question a régime that had Nature, herself, as protagonist. In England, he said, such as Ernest Barbour would not only not have aspired to Amy’s hand, but would not have dreamt of aspiring. A good booting would have been his punishment had he dared to look at her or touch her hand. But in America, we had tavern equality, where miscellaneous beer-dregs polluted the fine wine of high-born and gentle blood.
May would listen to all this, her dimples appearing and disappearing with faint cynicism. She would fan herself thoughtfully and think: “Nevertheless, my dear cousin, I shall marry him!”
A few days after that humiliating night, Gregory had almost, for the actual space of two minutes, decided to veto Ernest’s request for the loan. With this veto, the other directors would have doubted, wavered, finally, respecting the Sessions acumen, would have refused. A discreet word to the banks of Philadelphia and New York, and the loan would have been turned down unanimously. Gregory formed in his mind his message to the banks: “After all due consideration, careful and secret investigation of Barbour & Bouchard, though showing apparently sound assets and fine credit rating, etc., etc., leads us to the belief, due to certain phases of character of the owners, the spirit of doubt in their ranks, and certain animosities, that the loan would be badly advised.”
The Sessions name on such a message would have been the seal!
Gregory gloated over this unwritten message; he gloated over Ernest’s face when the loan was refused. His gloating rose to a frenzy of hatred. He actually picked up his pen to write his veto to his bank.
And then he burst out laughing in self-contempt, tossed the pen from him so that it rolled off the desk and fell to the floor with a derisive clatter.
“You know you can’t do that!” he said aloud, to himself. “It would destroy your own future profits!” He felt sick with his self-disgust, sick that he could gloss over for the sake of profits an insult to the only thing he loved. But he was also realist enough to know that the approval of the loan was the act of a sensible man. Only idealists and other fools could afford the luxury of righteousness and indignation. He went down to the bank, approved the notes, argued with a few cautious and suspicious directors, beat down opposition, signed the approval with large flourishes. A few days later he received this polite and cold note from Ernest, written in his neat, harsh hand: “I have learnt that had it not been for your kind intervention and insistence, your championing of me and belief in me, the loan would have been refused. I have the great honor, sir, of proffering my sincere thanks and lifelong gratitude.”
Gregory’s first reaction when he received this note was that he was about to have a stroke, his second, profound and shattering mirth. He howled with choking laughter, struck his thigh, threw himself back in his chair, shrieking. He carried the note to his c
ousin, for he recognized in that young woman a very salty realist. She read it, and smiled broadly. She said: “What irony! The young man is no fool.” When Gregory, stopping his laughter suddenly, stared at her in surprise, she added: “I suppose this is his first attempt at humor.” And joined Gregory in his renewed hilarity.
But a month later he became uneasy, for two reasons. Amy had lost much weight, and there was in her face a certain transparency that betrayed failing health. She hardly took the trouble to speak except when a direct question was put to her. Daily, she became more languid, yet restless, as if her body craved relaxation but her nerves refused it. She did appear to be utterly heartbroken; but it became very plain that she was also now ill with humiliation. She had had time to think, to brood over Ernest’s loss of interest, his shameful desertion of her. Once when his name was inadvertently mentioned, a wave of scarlet swept over her face, and she looked as though she had suddenly been robbed of the power to speak. Feeling her shame and mortification, she began to creep furtively about the house, unable to look the servants and her uncle and cousin in the eye; she flushed, trembled, avoided all human contacts. Her behavior was that of a woman who has been publicly disgraced for deserved reasons. This was the first reason for Gregory’s uneasiness, but not the more important.
The second reason was that he daily expected the arrival of his brother, Nicholas, and retinue. The rooms were all ready, extra servants engaged, and an accelerated air in the house. Though more than a hint had been written to the Senator by his brother about the possibility of a military contract being awarded to Barbour & Bouchard, Nicholas had remained blandly noncommittal; in fact, he had not replied to the first half dozen hints at all. Finally he had written: “I must see into this myself, when I return to Windsor. After all, there are more things to the awarding of a contract than a Senator’s predisposition, my dear Gregory.” Now he was coming home, and among the things he would decide would be the possibility of an army contract for Barbour & Bouchard, and the subsequent accruing profits to the Sessions Steel Company. And at this time, this most important of all times, Amy must become lovesick (poor Amy, my little lamb!) and drive away the one person who would be able to impress Nicholas Armand Bouchard was able, but Nicholas suspected “foreigners.” Joseph Barbour, Nicholas would probably feel, was too erratic and excitable: he would not inspire respect from Nicholas. As for Martin Barbour, Raoul and Eugene Bouchard—Gregory grimaced. What weak rods they were! The brains of the company resided in Ernest, Joseph and Armand, but Ernest held the possibility of a military contract in his own hands. So, because of Amy’s “lovesickness,” the contract might go a-glimmering. Thinking this, Gregory’s irritation rose, and he was rather short with Amy. Her timid, humiliated expression deepened into fright, and she ran from him. He cursed himself, fumed, felt his irritation become an ugly sense of wrong, knew himself to be cruel and unreasonable to the only creature he loved and who loved him, hated himself for this, and felt a renewed if loving resentment against the girl. Women, he thought angrily, cannot keep their boudoirs even from the counting house and the Senate chamber. Damn it, the girl had driven away Ernest Barbour, just when Nicholas returned!
He thought it over, biting his lips. Then he conceived quite a clever plan from his sincere desire to alleviate the girl’s sufferings and his wish to bring Ernest and Nicholas together. He knew very well that he could not approach Ernest, except on the most cold and formal of footings, until he was reconciled with him, and Nicholas had a particular hatred of cold and formal footings, except when he deliberately created them himself. But other people’s affairs, especially when they collided deleteriously with his, aroused his impatience and his ire. No, the contract business had to be discussed genially and informally and intimately in this very house, if anything were to be accomplished.
So one warm dim summer evening Gregory sent for his niece. She stole silently into the library, a too-slender, white little ghost in her huge and filmy skirts, her glossy ringlets clustered childishly about her pale cheeks. She looked at Gregory with frightened eyes, sat down, regarded him silently, and waited.
He began to pace up and down the shadowed twilight of the big library, affecting great agitation and distress; she watched him, her eyes following him mutely. Finally he stopped before her, bent over her, his hands on the arms of her chair, and kissed her forehead gently. She did not stir for a moment, then she leaned her head upon his shoulder as though she were very tired. He stood up, averted his face.
“Amy, my love,” he began hesitantly, “I must confess something to you, and afterward, beg your forgiveness, I should have told you before, but I did not think it important. However, I mentioned it to May, only today, and she expressed the opinion that I should tell you, in order that we all might refrain from punishing too much a young man whose only fault was his very natural presumption. After all, May said, no man coming in contact with Amy could help loving her, and it was really too harsh to deprive this certain young man of the pleasure of her society and the society of his other friends here because of something outside his will.”
For a few moments an expression of stark bewilderment settled itself on Amy’s face, then she suddenly flushed crimson. Her mouth fell open as she uttered a faint cry; she half rose in her chair, then fell in it again. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, and fixed her eyes passionately on her uncle. Meeting those eyes, he felt a momentary shame.
“Amy, my love, the last time Ernest Barbour was here, you will remember that he accompanied me into the library, leaving you in the drawing room with May. We had been together here only a few moments when he impetuously asked me for your hand.” He stopped; Amy had put her handkerchief to her lips with a sharp gesture, and over the filmy bit of lace her gaze widened, deepened, filled with tears.
He affected to laugh uncomfortably. “Naturally, my pet, I refused. What else could I do? Here was a man who not only was low-born and under-bred, a boor and an upstart, but also a scoundrel, a mountebank of the worst order. He had attained his success by reason of skullduggery, cheating, treason, ingratitude and greed. I found it quite easy to silence him, for I knew that you had no regard for him whatsoever, that a lady of your breeding and your blood would have been outraged at the very suggestion. My first impulse was to kick him down the stairs. And then, I pitied him. For it was very evident that he had a sincere attachment for you.”
He stopped again, for Amy had suddenly begun to cry into her kerchief, deep, long, wavering sobs. Her slender shoulders huddled and shook, her ringlets fell over her face. But there was release in her weeping, release from intolerable humiliation.
Gregory’s voice broke with real feeling when he continued: “I knew such a man would never make my darling happy, that he would break her heart, bring her shame and mortification and grief. So I not only refused, but forbid him to speak to you. Being low-bred, he arrogantly said he would speak to you anyway, and I replied that my niece, my dutiful Amy, would refuse him at my command, knowing that I would never recover if she made a bad match, and that, she, realizing that I am an old man and have no other thing to love and love me in all the world, would never leave me until I felt able to relinquish her.”
He knelt down beside the weeping girl, drew her head to his shoulder. “Amy, my dearest, you would not leave your desolate old uncle until he was quite willing to give you up into the hands of someone he would feel was worthy of you? Amy, I am an old man, and I have not so long to live: if you married against my wishes, married someone unworthy, someone detestable, I would never be happy again. Promise me, my love, that you will marry only when I give my consent?”
She clasped her hands about his neck, and sobbed: “O uncle, you know I would never leave you, never!” He could feel the trembling of her light body; he kissed her over and over with a sort of remorseful passion.
“Ah, my darling, you will leave me some day with one worthy of you. And I shall be happy. How else could I be, but happy?” She shook her head slowly and with a
sort of painful grief. “Yes, my love.” He tightened his arms about her, and let her cry out the poison of her humiliation and the bitterness of her love. He fixed his mind on what May had really said, that Amy’s fancy only had been touched, and not her heart. He hoped so, by God, he hoped so!
After a while her sobs grew easier; she wiped her eyes, and fixed them, in all their luminous innocence and pity, on his: “Uncle Gregory, he—he was not too hurt? You were not too—harsh? He—he did not look too distressed?”
Gregory hesitated. Now, this was all damnation! What should he say? If he said Ernest was utterly cast down, her pity might indeed ripen into enduring love; if he said Ernest was philosophical, she would be ill from mortification. So he said, picking his way as a man picks his way between sharp stones: “One cannot say. I would say, however, that he had a sincere regard for you, but he is too impatient, too gross, to linger over ground he knows will never be his. Nevertheless, May says that I am being too harsh to him. I had told her of his admiration of our home, and his pleasure in it, and she believes it is cruel to deprive him of the only means to culture of a sort that is open to him. Also, she says, it is very humiliating to you to allow him to form the idea that I have permanently banished him because you are so lacking in sensibility and decorum that you might form an attachment for him, against my wishes.
“So she advised me to ask you what to do, and abide by your wishes in the matter.”
Amy wiped her eyes, smiled feebly, colored a little.
“You are perfectly right, Uncle Gregory, and dear May, too. We—we must not be cruel. I think it would be nice if we invited him to dinner, to meet Uncle Nicholas.”