Dynasty of Death

by Taylor Caldwell

  Still suspicious and fuming, Joseph yet was soothed and almost placated. “Well, I’m glad it’s not gone beyond that,” he said grudgingly. He was much depressed, however. “I don’t know what’s gotten into the lad. He tells me nothing. It’s only an accident that he told me that he is proposing for Miss Amy Drumhill, presumptuous pup. He never tells me anything.”

  Armand grunted, cocking his head sideways as he watched Joseph shrewdly. “Your son Ernest is a very wise young man. He never tells anything. He never explains anything, nor asks for explanation.”

  And that, thought Armand, was very, very wise. He, Armand, had his thoughts about that “Army” contract, that had bloomed so suddenly, so pleasantly, so vaguely, from Mr. Gregory Sessions one fine day. There was something so very smiling and casual about Gregory’s words: something murmured about a “test” contract, very private and obscure, but very, very lucrative. But yes, so very, very lucrative. Gregory had been right: Joseph was too innocent, and Armand too clever, to ask questions. All that Armand requested of such a situation was not to be expected to ask for explanations. He required only that others so conduct themselves that they gave the impression of believing that he required no explanations. A man must save his face, and dignity. And explanations were frequently undignified. Not only that, they stood in the way of good profits. He had a very good idea that if he had known the whole story he would have been forced to refuse. For many uncomfortable reasons. No one, then, would have gained anything whatsoever, but would have lost much monetary advantage. Armand did not look gift horses in the mouths, and only asked that he be not asked to. The horse might have many bad teeth, but if he did not see them, why, mon Dieu! the teeth might be perfectly sound. It was characteristic of him that, having come upon something that might smell badly, he held his nose, even in privacy, even in his own thoughts. Especially if his infrequently articulate conscience might have been troubled by the odor. Therefore, Armand had blandly supervised the filling of that stupendous, that most magnificent order, blandly watched the loading of the many innocent flatboats that came out of nowhere and vanished into nowhere, manned by a crew that was as entirely bluff and profane and casual as any other crew.

  He was suddenly conscious that while he had been thinking Joseph’s irate voice had gone on and on.

  “—as cool as a cucumber! By God, I hope the lass has the wit to give him the mitten!”

  Armand dexterously swam abreast of the conversation. “But Mademoiselle,” he said, “will not be foolish. No, she will accept our Ernest. Or, he will take her. He will always take everything. But some day, perhaps, life will not take him, and that will be a very sad day for our young friend.”

  “He thinks he’s getting the upper hand,” said Joseph menacingly. “But, he isn’t. He’ll never get the upper hand, by Jesus, as long as I’ve a breath in my body.”

  But as he began to inspect some finished guns, he was not so sure.

  CHAPTER XIV

  None of those who knew Ernest, except Armand, would have believed it, but Ernest had fallen in love with Miss Amy Drumhill, so intensely, so all-possessedly, that his mind, for many days, felt as though an earthquake had split it open, letting out thoughts and desires and hopes and madnesses. He carried the inferno within him so deeply, however, so grimly guarded, that his outward composure was not broken at all, and not a flash of his inner lightning could pierce to the surface of his still, bright eye.

  It was not a fierce and violent fire that must burn itself out by very reason of its mad voracity. The scars of the earthquake would always remain in him; the very geology of his mind was convulsed, but convulsed by the impact of a glacier and not by a volcano. This mind was like rock and frozen earth, that, having been contorted under frightful pressure, and split under arctic stress, would never regain its old contour. A more tropical mind would have been convulsed by a volcano, would have been turned to fiery fluid, would have run in hot flux, then, the heat subsiding, would have resumed almost entirely its old form. In him, the earth moved and the mountains fell and never rose again.

  Amy Drumhill was the only living thing that Ernest Barbour ever really loved. He lived to be an old man, but he never stopped loving her. He was not the kind to be changed or softened by love; it had the strange effect of solidifying his character, strengthening those parts of it already strong, bringing to it the last rigid touch of maturity, grinding away those attributes that were of the least use to his purpose.

  But it was not for several years that he fully realized how profoundly and completely he did love her, and how impossible for him it was to rationalize this love, or hold it down. He was to forget many things, many of them very important things, but he never forgot the day he met her.

  He had not been overcome by Gregory Sessions’ invitation to dinner that momentous Sunday. He had known for some time that the invitation was inevitable some day soon. He and Gregory could use each other too well for them to be strangers. Miss Amy Drumhill had never gone to her uncle’s mills, naturally, and though he had not as yet seen her, Ernest was already making plans regarding her. He knew nothing about her, either with regard to her age, appearance or character, but he did know that her uncles were Gregory and Nicholas Sessions, and that she was their only niece. Gregory was very uncommunicative about his personal relationships, and though he gave an air of elegant candor, he really told nothing. Ernest was vaguely aware that he had another relative, the daughter of a dead cousin; he believed she was called May Sessions, but he was not certain. Gregory had mentioned the woman only once or twice, and Ernest had some idea that she was his, Gregory’s, contemporary. But when speaking of Amy, even Gregory’s cynicism warmed and softened. Heiress to all her bachelor uncles possessed, she would be a very good catch, indeed, thought Ernest, coolly, not for a moment considering himself presumptuous. He had no false modesties; he knew his full worth, and felt quite fully that Miss Amy could indeed go far and fare worse. He was also aware that the two uncles must be wooed and won, also, for he had no intention of marrying a girl who might be cut from an angry uncle’s will.

  He went that day to the Sessions house with his mind revolving and clicking like one of his own machines. The power that was in him welled out, flooded his whole body, so that his walk became buoyant and firm, conquering. It was a very lovely spring day, too, soft and bright and warm, and when Ernest had crossed the rail line that divided Newtown from Oldtown, and had begun to walk through gracious old streets sprawled sleepily under gracious old trees, he felt that he had come into his proper place. He rarely had occasion to come to Oldtown, and so the dignified old houses, set far back from the walks behind smooth green lawns and box hedges and syringa bushes, delighted him. He looked boldly at the distant verandahs and piazzas where the huge flowering skirts of women billowed and bloomed in bright colors, and from which came sweet disciplined laughter and gentle, penetrating voices. He looked at the gentlemen who discussed many things on the lawns, under the shade of great trees, and felt himself their equal, if not their superior. He looked at the rich polished carriages as they bowled along on their twinkling wheels, the coachmen and footmen as rigid as soldiers in their brilliant uniforms, the horses glistening, and he told himself that soon, he, too, would have such a carriage and such servants. He looked at the small, well-dressed boys walking in Sunday decorum with their nurses, and he said to himself that some day he would have such bright, sturdy young sons to continue what he had started. The peace, the softness, the graciousness, the fine manners and old mellowed richness of Oldtown bewitched him while they invigorated him, and prodded an ambition already regal and rapacious. The house he had bought from his uncle would not be at all bad if the gingerbread decorations were removed, a wing or two added to detract from its angular height, large trees transplanted in a circle about it, a real garden set out, and the stables enlarged. Money could enrich it, give it a polished old patina and graciousness He knew obscurely that his aunt had furnished it very badly; he had already begun to sell off
the garish and uncomfortable furniture. It would do very nicely. He would buy another half acre of land about it, to give it the dignity of an estate. Very distinctly he saw himself walking up the wide flagged path to the doors, which opened obsequiously before him, and entering dim and polished halls with great, richly furnished rooms beyond. He heard the childish voices of his sons; he saw his wife coming to greet him, a nebulous but graceful female with an indeterminate face. But he could see very clearly that she was a female of refinement and civility, and elegantly clad. She deferred to him, obeyed him, ministered to him, of course, like a privileged upper servant, but he cared nothing as to whether she loved him or he her; she was merely a necessary adjunct to a perfect and progressively ambitious picture. He did not imagine her voice, whether she was handsome or plain: it mattered only that she had brought him the Sessions steel and lumber mills and a tidy fortune.

  He had passed the Sessions house a few times before, but never had it looked so beautiful and hoary and noble as it did today, dim gray under bright green foliage, speckled with sun-gilt. There it stood, in its girdle of trees, established, secure and full of gracious dignity. Here were home and peace, comfort and gracious hospitality, urbanity and exquisiteness. Some memory of the old houses in England stirred in him as he walked up the long gentle slope of the lawns to the house. Two of the upper windows, escaping the foliage, burned with the hot yellow sunlight; two large collie dogs romped and barked around the flower beds, and darted about the trees; one of the grooms was whistling in the stables. But these, and the soft, murmurous hum of bees and the drowsy, silken rustle of leaves, were the only sounds in the mellow, shining silence. As Ernest neared the steps, the dogs were attracted to him, and came, leaping and bounding and barking. He was so pleased today that he could be kind even to animals, which he normally disliked. He whistled to them, snapped his fingers at them, called to them coaxingly. They halted abruptly a few feet from him, ceased their barking. Their fringed tails, a moment before uplifted and gay, drooped suddenly; they poked their noses tentatively toward him, their heads lowered a little. He looked into their bright brown eyes, and even he, unaccustomed to animals, read the anxiety and distrust in those eyes. This annoyed him; he renewed his wooing. They did not approach nor retreat nor answer; there was something troubled in their steady and uneasy regard, their fixity, their silence. One could tell all their lives they had been accustomed to love and gentleness and indulgence: they were so obviously bewildered and apprehensive where more experienced dogs would have growled, or attacked. Ernest was still young and boyish enough to be piqued at this lack of enthusiasm on the part of creatures he was prepared to like; his vanity was hurt, where no human being could have hurt it. He reached out suddenly and touched one of the dogs with his cane. The animal shrank, trembled, howled, then turning tail he fled, followed by his mate. They went behind the house, disappeared toward the stables. Ernest, nonplussed, remembered someone saying that “dogs always knew.” Damned superstition, he thought, smiling ruefully as he mounted the wide stone steps of the piazza. He began to frown; Joseph, his father, was the kindest and most upright of men, yet he, too, disliked dogs, and they disliked him. Nevertheless, the incident annoyed Ernest. He lost his very human pleasure in his new black suit and shining boots and sleek “stove-pipe” hat. He looked with disfavor on his new malacca cane with its gold knob. Damn the dogs, had they spoiled his day?

  But the moment the manservant opened the door and admitted him to a great square hall, polished and dim and cool, he knew that his day was not going to be spoiled. He looked with frank pleasure and appreciation at the delicate white spiral staircase twisting upward through a soft gloom, at the tall black-walnut grandfather’s clock ticking solemnly in the friendly silence, at the dimmed long mirrors on the walls. He was led into the drawing room where sunlight gushed with subdued yellowness through white Venetian blinds onto rich dark rugs, delicate rose wood furniture covered with old tapestry, and floors like dark mirrors. He looked with appreciation at the carved tables and crystal lamps, at the silver candlesticks on the white-marble mantelpiece, at the ormolu clock ticking daintily between them in the stillness, at the oil portraits in heavy gold frames that hung on the ivory-tinted walls. Ah, here was all he had ever wanted, everything for which he had worked and driven! The picture in his mind changed abruptly: he saw himself in this house, as lord and master. He forgot his uncle’s house. Here was his place, already prepared for him! He knew that Amy Drumhill kept her uncle’s house, and he admired, almost with vehemence, the perfection of her keeping.

  Gregory Sessions was standing with his niece in the gardens at the rear of the house when informed by a servant that Mr. Ernest Barbour had arrived.

  “Come, my pet,” he said kindly to the girl. “Our guest is here. Study him carefully. A scoundrel, my love, a very perfect young scoundrel. You will notice I do not speak condemningly, but really admiringly. Anything perfect, even a perfect rascal, is admirable. But what a mind, what an ambition! A veritable Napoleon. Do not mistake me: I am not jeering, nor prophesying. Merely stating a fact.”

  “I always detested Napoleon,” smiled Amy Drumhill, taking his arm and walking with him back to their home. “I cannot see how you can endure him. Uncle Gregory, you, who are the soul of honor and integrity.”

  Gregory smiled down at her fondly, not with a melodramatic twinge of guilt or conscience, but merely with tender amusement that anyone at eighteen could be so innocent, so undiscerning. Whatever was to become of the girl!

  Ernest was absorbed in the study of a portrait when his host and hostess entered. Amy saw him standing there with his back to the door, his feet planted squarely and apart on the hearth rug, his head lifted. She thought, in surprise: what a fine pair of shoulders, and what a large, fine head! But he is quite short—no, he is really quite tall. She noticed his hands, clasped behind him: What big fine hands, so brown and strong! He turned slowly at their entrance: What a heroic face, but how lifeless! thought Miss Amy Drumhill, Yet, not lifeless, on quicker glance, but still and composed and rigid as carved stone, full of power. A slow warmth began to permeate her, and a glow rose to her cheeks.

  Gregory greeted his young friend with great pleasure and courtesy. He introduced him to his niece. Ernest took her small soft hand and looked down at her gravely. He saw that she had bright brown eyes, the same brown, flecked with amber, of the unfriendly dogs’ eyes, but hers were gentle and shy and welling with soft friendliness. They were set in a small, rather pale face, exquisitely shaped, and her mouth was pale pink and childishly moist. She had a small straight nose with delicate nostrils. Not very pretty, according to conventional standards, she yet had such a sweetness and purity of expression that she was utterly charming. Her light brown hair, smooth and glossy, hung about her cheeks in childish ringlets; her neck was slim and white and childlike, sloping down into small, beautifully formed shoulders. She was tall and very slender, and this, combined with the high but immature rise of her breasts, made her appear much younger than she was. Delicate ivory lace flounced over her shoulders and arms to the elbows, but her immense crinolined skirts were of pale blue silk over white lace petticoats, and when her skirts tilted a little as she walked with her light and swaying step, they revealed lace pantalettes and tiny black slippers with black ribbons. She had pinned several pink rosebuds in the lace on her breast, and the hot sweet scent floated about her entrancingly.

  She greeted Ernest in a fluting voice of extreme gentleness. He had seen her but a few minutes when he knew that he loved her, and would always love her. He did not know that the great wave of exultation that swept over him was called happiness, for he had never been happy before, but he knew that he felt intoxicated and shaken, split open and resounding, and that something colossal moved in him and shifted its base. It was not in him to feel humble, but he did feel an enormous and momentary recession in himself, as if something in him was too harsh and brutal to approach her. There had not been many times in his life when he had lost h
is composure, but he lost it now. Within himself was a great floundering, an agonized attempt to regain footing that was slipping perilously. He had a shameful idea that his uncouth attempts to regain an equilibrium enormously disturbed were visible to both Gregory and Amy; he imagined that they were vastly amused, and his color, always painful and reluctant, rose to the large planes of his pale face. His eye fell away from the serene innocence of Amy’s eye; he found himself clutching her hand with prolonged desperation, and when he discovered this he dropped that hand.

  “His eyes,” thought Amy, her throat throbbing oddly, “are like thick pale glass with a light behind it. You can’t see any shadows of what he is thinking in them.”

  Gregory talked on, easily and elegantly, as they went into the cool white-and-mahogany dining room, but Ernest did not hear him. All the beauty and charm of the house, the luminous green light that seeped through the Venetian blinds of the dining room and lay on the ruddy mellowness of the furniture, the mighty array of silver sparkling dimly on the vast sideboard, the pictures of fruit and game on the walls, the thick soft rug, the table with its whiteness, crystal and silver and flowers, the rustling of the trees outside: all these were suddenly brilliant with a radiance that emanated from Amy Drumhill. He moved in bemusement. He sat down at the dazzling and snowy round table, stared blindly at the exquisite, heavy silver, watched his crystal goblet being filled with a brown sherry, ate a delicate broth as if it were tasteless water, and all in all reacted exactly as most any young man would who had fallen desperately in love for the first time. With this difference: over the frozen chaos of his mind the iron glacier of his will was moving: he wanted Amy Drumhill; he would have her; nothing could keep him from her. It was all settled in him between the soup and the ham and the roast beef. This settled, all uncertainty, doubt, tremors, anxiety, diffidence removed, he could proceed to enjoy and bedazzle himself with the sight and sound of this sweet-faced girl with her fluting voice and gentle smile. He had little palate for table delicacies, but today his very senses were touched and sharpened, become sensitive; each morsel of food amazed and delighted him with its deliciousness. Whoever would have thought there was such cooking in all the world! He had no taste for wines; in fact, he had not the slightest notion of the various kinds he was sipping so stolidly; alcohol was somewhat repellent to him. But today these anonymous wines took on a poignancy and exhilaration on his tongue that communicated themselves to his mind, so that he was filled with a sense of lightness and excitement he had never experienced before. His new sense of power and ease had not come to him until he had reached the ham and sweet potatoes; ludicrously, he found himself regretting that he had not regained himself in time to enjoy the soup.