The chorus of assent reassured him, and the listeners’ resentment vaguely began to extend itself to Stephen for no logical reason at all.
Stephen never remembered that awful running through the streets of Portersville, nor did he ever recall the farmer. He knew that in someway he must have gotten home, but the details were forever hidden from him, and he never tried to remember. After all, that had been nothing. The only thing that he could recollect was racing desperately up the walk toward the tall, narrow house which had been his father’s, and straining his frantic eyes at the two windows which were lighted, one his own and Alice’s, and one the long living room which Alice had transformed from bleakness into charm.
His hair plastered to his skull, his eyes distracted, his clothing sodden and muddy, his boots pouring water, he flung himself into the small hallway and began to cry out in a cracked voice, “Alice! Alice! Where is Alice?” He had to lean against the wall, for his breath was suddenly gone, and he had no more strength.
For he knew. He had known it all for what seemed like black and timeless hours. When Lydia and his mother and his brother ran out to him, and he saw their faces, he could make no outcry; he could just look at them dumbly, his breath harsh and fast and moaning. Even when they surrounded him, he could not speak or ask a single question; and when his mother, by the light of the small chandelier which hung from the high ceiling, saw his face, she burst into wails and covered her eyes with her hands. Lydia was weeping, her pale and slender cheeks raw with tears, and even Rufus was red and wet of eye.
It was Lydia who came to him and took his hand speechlessly. He could direct all the wild intensity of his regard only upon her. He did not know that his brother was supporting him; he did not hear his brother’s voice. Something was happening to him internally; something was bleeding, pouring out all his life, something was twisting his heart in iron. He ought to have known! He ought to have known that he could never keep anything.
“Oh, Stephen, poor Stephen,” Lydia was saying, and she reached up and kissed his collapsed face. “My poor Stephen. Rufus, he must sit down. He seems as if he is dying.” A chair was forced behind Stephen’s knees, and he sat down obediently, without removing his eyes from Lydia’s face. She knelt beside him and put her arms about him, and her pretty mauve foulard dress was stained with his wetness and his mud. But his own arms hung slackly from his shoulders, and his breath was still a terrible thing to hear.
Sophia and Rufus stood near him, and Sophia sobbed loudly. Her crimson velvet dress had been put on hastily over her handsome figure, the lace collar awry, the pearl brooch at a sharp angle, and her gray hair was disordered. “My poor boy!” she moaned, and wrung her hands.
Rufus said, and his rich voice was queerly low and sustained, “Stephen, it couldn’t be helped. She fell down the stairs about half-past nine, and at ten the boy went for you and the doctor. It was no one’s fault; she tripped, poor Alice.”
Poor Alice, poor Alice, poor Alice! There was a jangling in Stephen’s ears, like a screaming of insane bells. Poor Alice, who had fallen, whose husband ought to have been with her, at home, helping her. But her husband was away, far away from her, helping a stranger, a friend. There was all that assistance for a friend, but none for Alice. The horrible refrain began once more: Alice! Poor Alice, poor Alice! Poor child, poor little one, poor bright blue eyes, poor happy voice, poor laughter, poor singing. Poor child, who was all he had.
Now he could speak, and only one word, very rustily, “Alice?”
Lydia tried to pull his head to her breast, but he put her aside with a gesture which could be gentle even now. He spoke only to her: “Alice—the baby—they are dead?” His voice seemed to come back to him from a far place, hollow and echoing.
Lydia could not reply, and all at once he remembered, even in that agony which could not possibly be real, that Lydia was Alice’s sister. He, with an effort so immense that it took his final strength, put his wet arm about her shoulders, and she fell against him, broken with anguish.
There was nothing inside him now but an empty place howling with exquisite torture. His blood and his organs had gone, and he was untenanted except for his suffering.
“I was away,” he muttered. “I was far away, and I didn’t know.” He looked up at his brother, and his eyes were blank pits. “I shouldn’t have been away. I didn’t know.”
Rufus put his hand on his brother’s soaking head, and he was shaken. “You couldn’t have helped. It happened too fast. Your idiot housekeeper was up the road buying eggs, and found Alice when she came back. She shouldn’t have left her. Steve, don’t look like that. It would have happened anyway. She was—she was—almost gone when she was found.”
He could not tell Stephen that Alice’s neck had been broken, and that she had lived only an hour after her fall, and had died even while her child was being delivered hastily, on this very hall floor, by Dr. Worth. A rug had been thrown over the bloody pool which had stained the light carpet. There she had lain in her deathly ignominy, in her red-stained white morning robe, while the doctor wrestled and struggled to bring forth the child before it, too, died. No, Rufus could not tell him this. He had seen it, himself, for he had arrived with the doctor. He would never tell poor Steve of the tumbled mass of pale hair which had lain on the floor, or the white still face, the glaring eyes upturned, the slack mouth open and emitting the gurgling sounds of death, and the pretty white arms and legs thrown wide in the last agonies. Rufus, who was rarely moved by anything, had been unbearably moved by this. The housekeeper had been useless, screaming in the background; but Rufus, in all his ruddy splendor, had knelt by the doctor and had assisted him. His own hands had been covered by gushing blood, and his own hands had touched the baby being wrested from the moribund body.
He could not tell Stephen, not so long as either of them lived, that at the final moment, before Alice died, her glazed eyes had taken on a gleam of consciousness, and that she had whimpered one lost and seeking question: “Stephen? Stephen?”
“She never recovered consciousness; she never knew,” lied Rufus. “She never suffered. Even if you had been here, she would never have looked at you or known you.”
Rufus rubbed his brother’s head clumsily, and Lydia, unable even to weep now, pressed her body against Stephen’s wet coat and could hear the slow thick beating of his heart under her ear.
“It’s a girl; a very nice little girl,” said Rufus, and his voice was changed and hushed. “Wouldn’t you like to see—to see—”
“I want to see Alice,” said Stephen faintly. He put aside Lydia, and Rufus helped him to his feet. The brothers moved slowly to the stairs, and step by step, held strongly by Rufus, Stephen climbed them, sagging and reeling. Lydia followed; she saw Stephen’s slipping and fumbling boots. The water and the mud ran over the light blue carpeting, leaving footmarks that resembled dark blood. She did not know the truth, either, and Rufus had resolved that he would never tell her. She had accepted his lies, without question, and had arrived a considerable time after Alice had died and had been taken to her bedroom. Even she did not know what the small carpet covered in the hall below. But it was she, and not the shrieking Sophia, who had taken off that beautiful white velvet morning gown, and who had washed and dressed the young and little sister who had always been in her care and under her protection. She had done this alone, in tearless and stony silence, for, until it was done, she dared not let her grief overpower her. It had seemed, while she worked, that she was washing and dressing the small Alice of their childhood, and she had combed the bright pale hair neatly and had folded the colorless hands on that childish breast.
A dim light burned in the bedroom which Alice had made so attractive with the light and airy furniture of her parents’ home. She lay in hers and Stephen’s bed, her head turned slightly toward the door as if she waited for her husband, not in eagerness but with sleeping, smiling patience. Lydia had dressed her in her cherished bridal nightgown of white satin and lace. Her closed eyel
ids, veined and rounded, were like marble; her lips, too, were marble.
Stephen staggered to the bedside, held by his brother, and he looked down at his wife. He stood like that for a long time, then his knees bent and he laid his head beside Alice’s on the same pillow, and he closed his eyes. The tears ran down Lydia’s face, and Rufus made a move as if to put his arms about her, then did not. There was such a bitter coldness on Lydia’s face, such a stiffness, such an anger.
Stephen’s breath, inaudible now, flowed over Alice’s serene and silent face. Rufus thought that he had fainted.
All that I had, all that had ever loved me, in all the world, Stephen was thinking. There is nothing now, just as there was nothing before I knew her. But it is worse than before; I have had her, and I’ve known what it is to have her, this dear thing, this loving thing, this sweetest of all things.
How could a man live when his darling was gone, when the voice that had coaxed, soothed, and comforted him, would never be heard again? What was there in life that could numb this desolation, take away this anguish, fill up the emptiness that had been full? She had been alone; he had not been with her; he had not been able to help her. She had died alone, and she had taken with her all the meaning of his existence and left him bereft. She had died while he was helping a friend, and with her had gone the sun and the warmth, the joy and the faith, the fire and the love.
He had not expected any reward for anything he had done, or for any suffering he had alleviated. It would never have occurred to him that he should have a reward. No, he had expected nothing.
But he had not expected to be punished because he had fed others and had consoled others. His punishment was too much, for what he had done.
8
The great wide window of what Sophia elegantly called “the large guest chamber” looked down precipitously upon a view which was conceded to be “one of the best in the state.” The artist who had built this house had originally intended it for an upstairs study, but it had been later converted into a bedroom for the more honored guests of the deWitts. The high white walls, the carved white ceilings, the magnificent white fireplace, were backgrounds for the dimmest of blue and rose and gold Aubusson rugs, massive cherry furniture, gold-threaded rosy draperies, and gilt lamps.
For six months Stephen had occupied that big postered bed and this velvet chair by the window. For six months he had lived silently in the room, never reading, very rarely speaking, and looking down emptily at the magnificent scene far below him. For two of those six months his life had been in danger from “the lung fever” which he had hoped would kill him. For another two months he had fought his return to health, and had almost won. For the past two months his still-young body had begun to win the struggle, against all his desires, all his anguished desires. He still had a passionate will to die, and sometimes, as now on this late October afternoon, the will gained temporary ascendency over the fighting flesh.
There he sat now, in the blue velvet chair, wrapped in shawls and blankets from which his narrow head and long gray face, so emaciated and so sunken, emerged like the head of a turtle from a large shell. His skeletonlike hands lay listlessly, palms upward, on the arms of the chair. The early twilight filled the room with a cold, wan light, like the reflection of snow, and the firelight raced over the white walls and ceiling in a dance of scarlet ghosts. Near the fire, as still as Stephen himself, sat Aaron deWitt in his dressing gown, his pipe held reflectively in his hand, his eyes fixed on his son, who seemed totally unaware of his presence.
Stephen gazed down through the window, but he saw nothing. The panorama of gray and purple hills, tumbling in silent chaos in the distance, evoked no interest in him. The mountains circled toward the house and enclosed a narrow river, glinting in dull silver under a dull silver sky, which wound away mysteriously into mists toward the farther mountains. The wild autumnal color, which had earlier fired the mountains into explosions of gold and crimson and unearthly greens, had subsided into the immense grandeur of cold lavenders and mauves and cobalt blues, retreating and unreal as a dream.
It was too early for sunset; the mountains beyond had not brightened as yet. The sky above them remained silvery. The fire crackled and spluttered; Aaron smoked thoughtfully; Stephen looked down vacantly at the ghostly river between the hills. The carved marble clock ticked on the mantelpiece, but this, and the snapping of the fire, were the only sounds in the wide room. They had been the only sounds for at least two hours. No other member of the family had entered the room, and no servant. Father and son sat alone, the father watchful, the son oblivious.
The will to die became stronger in Stephen, and as if he felt that desolate urging himself, Aaron stood up. He moved quietly and slowly to the small table near Stephen and carefully mixed some medicine into a glass of port wine. Then he touched Stephen’s shoulder, and Stephen started violently.
“Your tonic, Steve,” said Aaron, and his yellow teeth gleamed between his bearded lips. Then an involuntary grimace ran over his face, and he bent a little in a kind of uncontrollable convulsion. He gave a sharp small cough, straightened, and again said, “Your tonic. Drink it down, my boy. It’s time.”
Stephen’s lassitude was too enormous for ready responsiveness of movement. His left hand rose painful inch by inch, and he took the glass. It was heavy for him, in his weakness, and so it shook in his fingers. He did not want the “tonic” and the wine; if he drank it he would feel returning strength. He let his hand droop toward the table. Aaron grinned, took the glass, and held it to Stephen’s lips. “Come on, now; let’s not be a baby,” he said, with good humor. Stephen’s mouth, cold and dry, resisted for a moment; then, without looking at his father, he drank the liquid. Aaron nodded, as if with satisfaction. He went back to his chair, refilled his pipe, and began to smoke again. Occasionally he grimaced, as he had done before, and once or twice he pressed his hand against his stomach. He had grown older and thinner and smaller these past months, to Sophia’s dismay. She had attributed this to the grief Aaron had felt for the death of Alice and the collapse and suffering of his son.
Stephen’s thoughts, as always, were vague and confused cloud-shapes in his mind. He could not follow a thought through; it ran from him like a dissolving dream. He could think only of Alice with any clarity, and then the thought was an exquisite agony. Over and over he would say to himself: I didn’t know. I left her. I was helping. … There was the rain, and the river, and there wasn’t a hack—just the wind. I couldn’t run. But then, she was already dead. She was lying there, waiting for me. Alice.
He knew that he had been unconscious in that bed yonder when his wife had been buried. He had not as yet seen her grave. He had no desire to see it. Alice had gone; she was nowhere in the world. She would never enter through that door, nor stand beside him looking down at the river. She no longer existed. She had left him as if she had never known him. There was only an emptiness left, filled with unbearable pain. The pain did not lessen as the months went by; there was no dulling of the torture, no surcease. There was no consolation. His body might have grown stronger but his spirit lay in him bleeding and stricken to the death.
“He is making no real effort. I’m very disappointed,” the doctor had confided to Aaron and Sophia. “If he goes on this way—and I had hopes for him a few weeks ago—he will die. That’s what he wants. Medicine can only give him temporary strength, which he fights.”
Sophia, whose sympathy and imagination were so small, had become impatient. After all, she would say to Aaron, Stephen was still a young man. There were other nice young women in the world. And there was work to do. It was really dreadful that poor Rufus should be so burdened, now that he had to do his own work and Stephen’s. Had Aaron noticed how tired the boy seemed these days? It was a pity. Stephen should have some understanding of the hardship his brother was enduring. He should make an effort, especially since he knew very well that his father was still unable to return to his offices.
Lydia had given the baby
her mother’s name, Laura. Did Aaron remember the embarrassing day when friends had called upon Stephen, and had mentioned the child by name? He had looked at them vacantly, and had murmured, “Laura? Who is Laura?” Truly, Stephen was inflicting too much on his family.
Aaron had looked at her with his quick and evil smile. “Truly,” he had repeated solemnly. Sophia had colored angrily, then wondered if indeed Aaron was mocking her, and if so, why? He, who had always so derided Stephen and his tiresome gray ways, who had overlooked him in his childhood and his youth, and who had laughed at him so openly, could not possibly be mocking his wife when she had made a sensible complaint against their son.
Aaron had added no other comment to his single word, but had gone upstairs as usual to sit with Stephen. This baffled Sophia. It was so unlike Aaron. A few times she had crept to the door of the “guest chamber” and had listened. However, she never heard either man speak. Hours later, Aaron would emerge, go downstairs for a glass of whisky, or retire to his own room. Many times Sophia would desire to ask her husband why he stayed with Stephen for so long, but something prevented her from speaking. It was part of the tedious pattern of these months, and Sophia’s impatience became mixed with sullen anger against her stricken son. A nebulous uneasiness began to pervade the days for her, a kind of foreboding of some danger.
Today, Sophia, who was in her bed with a “chill,” was again uneasy. Aaron had not come into her room to enquire as to her state of health. He was with Stephen again, in the fine chamber which he had insisted Stephen occupy, though the south bedroom was quite adequate. Were father and son speaking at last? She listened intently. Once she thought she had heard Aaron murmur something. She sat up in bed and listened intensely. If Aaron had spoken, Stephen had not replied. Sighing with vexation, Sophia lay down again. Why wasn’t it obvious to everyone as well as herself that Stephen was just indulging in self-pity?