She looked up, from her seat under the trees, and saw a nurse wheeling a wheel chair toward her. Margaret sighed in pity. The chair was occupied by Heinrich, who had suffered a paralytic stroke two years before. He sat in the chair, lolling, shrunken and as passive as an infant, his sparse hair white, his face smooth and blank and apparently at peace. His attempts at speech were incoherent, and when he timidly smiled, it was a grimace. He had utterly given up; there was no need now for him to struggle to be needed and important. His illness had settled, once and for all, his necessity to be the father of the family and a man of affairs, and Margaret suspected, in her compassion, that he was content with this, even happy, behind his helpless façade. He constantly wore silk pajamas and a light dressing robe and slippers, which enhanced his infantile appearance. He could lift his right hand and move his right leg slightly. Beyond that he could do nothing, not even feed himself. “But his mind and intellect have been little damaged,” the doctor had assured the family. This, to Margaret, was more pathetic than anything else.
“Ah, there we are!” the short and muscular nurse said cheerily. “We thought we saw you from the sunroom, and so we came out for a little airing.”
“Hello, Jane,” said Margaret. She helped the nurse place the chair near her own. Heinrich grimaced at her and uttered a few unintelligible words in a slow, grunting voice. “The children?” said Margaret, who seemed the only one able to understand him. Heinrich nodded with painful eagerness. “I’ll get the children,” said the nurse. “They’re playing around the conservatories. I do hope André hasn’t broken another window. The gardeners complain so, and with wages so high these days you have to keep them in a good temper.” She patted Heinrich’s fallen shoulder maternally and went off for the children.
Margaret reached out lightly and touched Heinrich’s cold and shriveled left hand. He turned his head to her. His round dark eyes were faintly clouded, but his soul implored her speechlessly. What is it he is always wanting? Margaret asked herself in distress. If I could only find out, the poor thing! She said, “Papa Enger, one of these days you must tell me what you want. I’ll try to understand. And I’ll get it for you.” His eyes brightened, continued their heartbreaking plea. He grunted, but this time she could not understand.
The three children came racing across the hot and radiant grass, André in the lead, as always. He did not shout, as Robert did, but he had an unpleasant voice, shrill and ringing like hard little bells, which irritated the ear. This was more insistent than the twins’ voices; Robert and Gertrude, when they spoke, spoke softly and seriously, though they could be noisy in play. It was André who reached Margaret first, and she patted that hard round head with its topping of thin black fur. She loved all children, even André.
Her favorite child was Gertrude, who resembled her father very closely. Tall and slender and usually quiet, she had fine, frank gray eyes, an olive complexion, a pretty smile, and a wide-boned face. Her straight dark hair was braided, and the braids hung down her back, which was as broad and upright as Edward’s. She was as incapable of guile as her father, but was as quick as he to anger when confronted by injustice. There was absolutely no compromise in her; a thing was wrong, or it was right, and she could comprehend, as little as Edward, a mercy which took many things into account.
Margaret thought this somewhat hard. It puzzled her in Gertrude as it invariably puzzled her in Edward. Edward’s treatment of David years ago had not been guileful; it had been brutal and deliberate and open, and sometimes Margaret was afraid that Gertrude, if she was ever maliciously injured, would develop this attitude. As for Robert, he was a little taller than his sister, more outspoken than Gertrude, more vigorous, sunnier, and even gentler in spite of his strength. He resembled his mother; he had her bright and curling hair, her absolutely blue eyes framed in gilt lashes, her delicate features, her quick smile, her cleft chin, her lovely coloring. He was his father’s favorite, yet he was not as intelligent as Gertrude.
“What’ve you been doing, dears?” asked Margaret tenderly. Robert threw himself down on the grass beside her; his fair skin was moist with sweat, his eyes shining. Gertrude kissed her grandfather on the forehead, then stood beside his chair. His poor head bent in her direction, and he smiled in content. André bounced about the group, shrilling. “It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair!” he cried. “We played ball and Gertrude always threw it to Robert, all the time! Never to me, and it wasn’t fair!” His peculiar black eyes glittered on Gertrude with an odd expression.
“You aren’t telling the truth,” said Gertrude disdainfully, leaning against her grandfather’s chair. “You’re a big liar, André.”
“Gertrude,” said Margaret, admonishingly.
“Well, he is,” said Gertrude, coldly. “I don’t like liars. He always wants to be first. We’ve got rules when we play ball, and he doesn’t want rules. He just wants what he wants.”
Margaret tried not to smile. André could deceive adults, except herself and Sylvia and Maria, but he could not deceive his peers.
“Gertrude’s right,” said Robert, soberly. “We play triangles. But André always jumps to get the ball first; he won’t wait his turn.”
“You’re so slow!” said André, still bouncing energetically. He was like a cricket. “Pokey.” He suddenly stopped and draped himself with a winning smile over the arm of Margaret’s chair. “Aunt Margaret, will you take us to the movies on Saturday? It’s a bang-bang Western, all full of guns and Indians.” He cocked his little dark hand in the shape of a gun, and shrieked.
“All right,” said Margaret. “Do stop making that noise, André.”
“I don’t like Westerns. I like Mary Pickford,” said Robert, frowning.
“I don’t like either,” said Gertrude. “Why can’t we see the new Pathé picture at the Globe? Les—Les Miseries?”
“Les Miserables,” said Margaret. She smoothed Gertrude’s pink cotton frock, which Sylvia had designed and made. “Isn’t that a little too grownup for you, Gertrude?” Gertrude was mortified at her mispronunciation, an error she did not often commit.
“I’ve read the book twice,” she said. It was quite true; though only eight, Gertrude’s taste in reading was adult and comprehending. She preferred study to play; she led her class at the Waterford School for Girls, while Robert, at his own private school, was quite content to be in the low middle. At eight, she could read and speak French competently. Until he had died six months ago, old Pierre had taught her the language, beginning when she was hardly five. He had adored the little girl, who so resembled her father. “In French,” Gertrude added, “and in English.”
André’s eyes sparkled on her maliciously. “My mama’s French. So I’m more French than you are—Gertie. I’m brighter, too. Mama said so. French people are brighter than Germans. Mama said so.”
“If you’re so bright, why does she leave you here?” asked Gertrude, cuttingly.
“Now,” said Margaret, with sternness. But André was grinning, showing all his predatory white teeth, so like his mother’s. “It’s cheaper,” he said. “Besides, you’re so dumb, and Robert, too, that somebody has to stay here to teach you anything.”
Robert, on the grass, raised his head. “You’re part German, too,” he remarked. André blithely thumbed his nose at him and began bouncing again.
“Suppose I take you to the Globe, Gertrude,” said Margaret. “And one of the maids can take you two boys to another movie.”
“Western,” said André.
“Oh, all right,” said Robert, the amiable compromiser.
“Here comes Skinny,” said André, dropping his voice. Sylvia was approaching across the grass, tall and thin and aloof her black hair closely bobbed about her white, planed, and distinguished face. Even in summer she wore dark colors, “as every cosmopolitan woman does.” Her navy-blue silk dress rustled about her knees and thin calves, for she considered the very short skirts then in fashion to be vulgar. Besides, as she usually pointed out, longer skirts wer
e “coming in.” Only provincials were slow in following the trend. Her sole ornament, in her severe costume, was a string of real pearls about her long and stemlike neck.
Robert and Gertrude ran to meet her, racing. Her cold face softened; she bent from her height to put an arm about each of the twins. Margaret felt a pang of jealousy, then laughed at herself. “Skinny, Skinny,” muttered André, again leaning against Margaret’s chair. “Hush,” said Margaret, and frowned at him. Sylvia approached the group under the trees, her arms still about the shoulders of the twins. “I’ve been listening to the crystal set,” she told Margaret. “President Harding died today.”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Margaret, sitting up.
Sylvia smiled wryly. “And a good thing, too, with all that scandal.”
“He was a good, kind man,” protested Margaret. She and Edward had attended the President’s Inaugural. “You can’t blame him for his friends.”
“Why not?” said Sylvia. She looked at her father. She raised her voice, though he could hear well enough, and repeated the news. He gazed at her with blankness. “A man’s friends are a good indication of his tastes and his character,” Sylvia added. She sat down near Margaret and frowned into the distance, her aquiline profile, so like David’s, utterly set.
“Loyalty,” murmured Margaret. Sylvia shrugged. “A person shouldn’t have blind loyalty,” she said. “It distorts his vision.”
She seemed abstracted. Margaret said, “And so Mr. Coolidge is now the President. A very quiet man. We met him. I don’t remember ever hearing him say a word.”
“He has character,” said Sylvia. Her abstraction grew. She glanced at André. “Why do you have to jump so?” she asked, coldly.
“I like it,” said André, and jumped higher to displease her.
Sylvia ignored him. “Why don’t you children run off somewhere?” she asked. “I want to talk to an adult for a change.” But she smiled at the twins and for a moment her bony face was beautiful with affection. The children, even André, went away instantly, Gertrude admonishing André for something or other. “I can’t help it,” said Sylvia, following the children with her eyes, “but I detest that little boy.”
“It’s just that he’s so lively,” said Margaret, uneasily. “And so alone.”
Sylvia snorted. “Alone? He’s never alone. He’s got his own precious self, and that’s enough for him.”
Her almost fleshless fingers played with the string of pearls about her neck. Margaret detected that she was choosing words for what she wished to say. It must be important, thought Margaret. She’s so rarely at a loss. But when Sylvia spoke, it was on an old matter about which they invariably disagreed. “I’ve been reading another story of Gertrude’s,” said Sylvia. “It’s wonderful, almost good enough to be published. I do wish you’d encourage her, Margaret. But you hold her back; you don’t take her seriously. And she’s a genius.”
Margaret winced as usual. “I don’t believe in puffing children up,” she said and laced her fingers together tightly. “Gertrude gets enough encouragement. Yes, I know, I don’t let Ed praise her too much, and sometimes we quarrel about it. Genius! Gertrude’s still only a child. When she is eighteen or so, then we’ll see. By that time she’ll be mature and know what she really wants. Premature excitement on the part of parents can do children an awful lot of harm. Gertrude might decide to be a doctor or a lawyer or something, when she’s older, or perhaps get married as soon as possible. If we encourage her too much now, in writing, she’ll later feel guilty about disappointing us or something, or feel frustrated the rest of her life if her writing ability fades out. No, I want her to be as happy as possible and develop at her own rate. But we’ve gone over this before.”
Sylvia shrugged. “Of course I’m only her old-maid aunt and can’t be expected to know anything about genius,” she said spitefully. “You may think it will hurt her to encourage her, but I think your attitude may stifle her.”
Margaret said nothing. Sylvia went on, “And Robert plays beautifully on his flute. I do think he should have supplementary training, besides what he gets with the school band. He has a real genius for music.”
“Lots of children have,” said Margaret, keeping her voice level. “I noticed that, in the orphanage. Music comes naturally to most children. But later on, that faculty disappears. If Robert is really endowed, he will keep after it, with or without our encouragement. You can’t stop a real—talent. Then later, we’ll see, when he is more mature.”
“The twins have more than ‘talent,’” said Sylvia. “How you hate the word ‘genius,’ Margaret!”
I hate the damned word thought Margaret, and felt released by her silent profanity. She smiled. “We’ll see,” she said.
“The Engers have always been endowed,” Sylvia said. But Margaret refused to be goaded. She noticed again that Sylvia was playing with her beads. The nurse had returned and was now sitting next to her patient, embroidering, her glasses blinking in the sunshine. Heinrich, speechless, seemed to drowse in his chair.
Sylvia said abruptly, turning her stark face to Margaret, “I thought you ought to be first to know.” Margaret stared at her, puzzled.
Sylvia lowered her voice to escape the ears of the nurse. “You know Mr. Lang, the violinist with the theater? He’s been to dinner a few times.”
Margaret, still upset from the brush over her children and her regret at the death of the President, was momentarily confused. Sylvia frequently invited her artistic friends for dinner, and among them had been a series of very silent musicians from the theater. “Ellis Lang,” said Sylvia, impatiently. “He was here only two weeks ago.” Then Margaret remembered. Ellis Lang was an even more silent musician than the others, a bachelor in his middle forties, extremely colorless and humble, a tall man with a long meek face and shy eyes and a nervous manner. He had sat all through dinner murmuring faintly, laughing almost without sound, whenever addressed. “Oh, the violinist,” said Margaret. “A very nice man.” She wondered how Sylvia, the sharp and vibrant, had been able to tolerate such a pallid specimen of the human race. She looked at Sylvia and was astonished at the flutter of slight color in the other woman’s face.
Sylvia was smoothing her hands, one over the other, and staring at them. “I am going to marry Ellis,” she said. Then she looked up, and the color deepened under her cheekbones.
“Well,” said Margaret, helplessly. Then she was elated as well as amazed. Was it possible that one of the family would be leaving this house soon? She said, “Well, that’s wonderful. I didn’t know you were fond of him, Sylvia.”
Sylvia said, in a still cold voice, “I’m not. Very. But we have a lot in common.” Then her color faded, leaving her face starker than before. “I never cared for any man in my life, except one, and he is dead.” She made a short gesture. “Never mind; don’t pity me. It was a long time ago, and it doesn’t matter that I’ve never-forgotten him and never will. But Ellis needs me. Surely you’ve noticed Ellis at the theater, Margaret! He stands out, a virtuoso. Absolutely brilliant. But he’s always been poor and had to struggle. He never had a chance.”
Margaret was so bewildered at this stream of confidences that she could say nothing.
“I’ve not told anyone else yet,” Sylvia went on. “I expect to marry Ellis in two weeks, without fanfare or engagement parties or even an engagement ring. No publicity at all. A very quiet ceremony, in Mr. Yaeger’s study, with only our family present. Ellis hasn’t any living relatives.”
“I’m—happy for you, Sylvia.” Margaret was touched. Sylvia was sitting very upright and rigid in her chair and gazing at the distance. “I suppose he’s really a fine person,” Margaret added softly, “or you wouldn’t—I mean, you wouldn’t like him so much.”
“He hasn’t any money,” said Sylvia, flatly, as if Margaret had not spoken. “He barely makes a living at the theater, and playing, sometimes, at the hotels, or at private parties. But he never cared for money and doesn’t care for it now.” She repeate
d, “He needs me. And I hope to take him to New York for further study, at the Juilliard School of Music. Ellis is a genius.”
Margaret swallowed her rising elation. “We expect to leave for New York immediately after the ceremony,” Sylvia continued, “and I do hope we’ll never have to come back to this town! Except,” she added cautiously, “for visits.”
“Of course!” said Margaret, controlling her joy. “I understand perfectly!”
Sylvia eyed her curiously. “I wonder,” she said in a meditative voice, “if you do, Margaret. You see, we’ll need money. We’ll need an apartment there, a good apartment, not one of those places in the Village. Ellis is very sensitive, and he’s known only miserable rooming houses all his life, and that’s part of what has been inhibiting him. So he must have pleasant surroundings, and security, so he will feel free to develop himself.” She smiled tightly. “It will probably take at least four years, at the school of music, and all this will be very expensive. As you know,” and she paused, “all I have is my allowance from Ed, and I’ve spent it on clothing and on the few luxuries I have.”
Then Margaret understood, and her heart began a sudden indignant beating. Edward was to pay for all this; Edward was to have another parasite hung about his neck like an albatross. Four years at one of the most famous music schools in the world, for a miserable stranger no one hardly knew, except Sylvia! Four years in a luxurious apartment for Sylvia and her husband, four years of increased allowances for clothing not only for Sylvia but for Ellis Lang, and for their private spending in the most expensive city in the country! It was a matter, probably, of at least eight thousand dollars a year—out of Edward’s pocket. No, at least ten thousand dollars, in these days of wild inflation.
Sylvia turned in her chair and studied Margaret, saw the angry sparkle of her eyes and her compressed mouth. “Well, what am I to do?” she demanded. “Unless Ed helps us? Did you expect him to come here and live on us like a parasite? He has his pride, Margaret, even if perhaps you don’t believe that.”