Dynasty of Death

by Taylor Caldwell

  Gregory sat down very slowly, staring at the door through which Ernest had passed. He was alarmingly white, and looked suddenly old and shaken.

  “Amy,” he muttered. He clenched his fists. “If he hurts her, I’ll kill him!”

  May trilled deliciously. “Oh my, Gregory, do not be so dramatic, like a play! Men do not kill each other nowadays. The law doesn’t like it. If you just drop a hint to him that Amy is really penniless, and living on charity in our house—my house—I am sure he will drop her like a hot coal. I may be only a female, but I do understand gentlemen. They are all alike, whether they live in Windsor or in New York.”

  Gregory pressed his fist against his teeth, still staring at the door. He looked very sick and full of fear. And hate.

  “Yes, of course, I’ll tell him. I never thought—It is all my fault. I think you are wrong, May. If she wants him, and he wants her, knowing she has no money, she shall have him! Amy’s happiness is more to me than anything else in the world. He’ll go a long way. In a certain respect, he is a good catch for her. But he is unscrupulous, a rascal. Almost a mountebank. God! I don’t know what to do!” He covered his face with his hands.

  “Rascals, and men almost mountebanks, sometimes go a long way. They might even become President,” said May, smiling. “Fine, virtuous men very often have to beg in their old age. I have seen this so many times! If Amy got Mr. Barbour, it would be a feather in her cap, and quite a load off your mind, my dear old Greg.”

  “I should have got her married off to some young man of family and money,” muttered Gregory, without lifting his hand. “It is all my fault. I wanted to keep her with me for awhile. But I did wrong.”

  “Fie!” exclaimed May lightly, but with some compassion. “Most of our friends here in Windsor are becoming as poor as old cheese. And young gentlemen, even if they have money of their own, do not like to play King Cophetua. It would have been hard to marry Amy off satisfactorily.”

  “Are you advising me to allow her to marry that—that English bumpkin—if he wants her?” asked Gregory, with some curiosity.

  May shrugged. “He will not ask her—if he knows. I am certain of that. But he ought to know, for her sake as well as for his.”

  “Ah,” said Gregory thoughtfully. He watched her for a long moment, and she met his eyes serenely and squarely, the dimple appearing and disappearing in her bright cheek. “You are a minx, May, but I do not think you are cruel. Nevertheless, you are a minx.” He stood up. “I believe you are quite wrong. It will not be hard to find out, and I will do it at once.”

  She rose in a swish and flurry of silken petticoats, and ran round the table to him, where she took his arm, her small gay face a little anxious “Gregory, please. If he does not ask her, after hearing of this, and you are certain that he would have done so, otherwise, you will not hold it against him? I have always loved you, Greg, much more than I have loved Nicholas, for Nicholas loves his platitudes for all her is a really savage beast. But you have no platitudes. You are very fair, and you will acknowledge that if he does not speak for Amy, you would not have spoken in his place?”

  His mouth and nostrils tightened, and he moved as if to shake off her hand. But she forced herself in front of him, taking him by the lapels of his coat. “Gregory,” she said earnestly. “Please, Gregory?”

  He shrugged, tried to smile. “What a realist you are, May! It’s unbecoming in a female. But you are quite right in this: in his place, I would do exactly as he will do. I will not hold it against him.”

  They went into the drawing room, together, where Amy was sitting in the glow of firelight and candlelight, her hands in her lap, her face, which was uplifted, radiant. Ernest was leaning against the mantelpiece, and looking down at her, was talking softly. They both started as Gregory and May entered the room.

  CHAPTER XX

  Ernest felt that everything was with him, tonight, when he led Amy from the dining room into the drawing room. Here everything was warm and dim and intimate, the fire a fretwork of red and gold on the hearth, the candles burning in an aura of gold. When Amy sat down before the fire, he thought he had never seen anything so lovely and exquisite as this girl, with the pure high sweetness of her expression and her perfect dignity. He stood, looking down at her.

  He experienced a sensation of complete satisfaction and peace. Everything was complete. He had never seen awakening love in a woman’s face before, but he saw it in Amy’s, and it touched him profoundly. He felt quite humbled and contrite, and yet invincible. It was all so beautiful: this girl, the love he felt for her and the rising passion, the charming grace of the room, the old house, and everything that these things meant. He could not dissociate Amy from her home; somewhat banally he thought: She is like a pearl in its proper setting. His infatuation embraced the house and all the things in it. Without Amy, the house was nothing; without the house, Amy was disoriented, out of joint in his mind. He could not conceive of them being apart; the house was a body, and she was a spirit, he thought extravagantly.

  Yet through all his extravagance, like a wool thread through cloth of gold, ran the sober and satisfying thought: Everything is to be hers, the mills, the mines, the foundries, the fortune in the bank and in stocks. It is a fortune! No doubt her uncles will give her a sizable dowry, just to begin with, and we shall live here together in this lovely house. I have seen larger houses, and newer houses, in Philadelphia and New York, but they were nothing compared to this. And Gregory is an old man, and his brother is old. In the normal course of events I shall soon be managing the mills, and when they die it will all be mine!

  The excitement of his thoughts made his face glow, fill with expression. He bent down toward the girl, whose cheeks colored.

  “Miss Amy,” he said in a low voice, “how much I owe to you and your kindness! I was a—a barbarian, until I met you. You have introduced me to a new world, of music and books and fine living. How can I ever thank you?”

  A fluttering rose in Amy’s throat, and she felt tears in her eyes. She regarded him gently.

  “Oh, Mr. Barbour, you are too kind! I am sure I have done nothing for you at all! But gentlemen frequently become so absorbed in business or in their professions that they have little time to cultivate music and literature. It is we women who must keep them alive, and ready, for the time when gentlemen can spare a few moments for them. They are only graceful things, after all, merely decorations. But you are interested in much more important matters.”

  “I was a barbarian,” insisted Ernest. But he smiled, just a trifle smugly. He bent down and poked the fire to a brighter blaze. When he stood up his face was red and slightly agitated.

  “Miss Amy, do you find me completely intolerable?”

  The question was so abrupt and unexpected that Amy, used all her life to graceful circumlocutions, to polite innuendoes and suggestions, was taken aback. Her face turned scarlet with embarrassment; she did not know where to look. Then, meeting Ernest’s eyes, she could not look away again.

  “I am sure,” she almost whispered, “that no one could find you at all intolerable.”

  “I am glad of that,” he said, in a voice almost as low as hers. “You make me very happy, Miss Amy.”

  He drew a deep breath. He was about to burst out with his proposal when he suddenly remembered that gentlemen do not first approach a young lady, but ask her parents or guardian for permission to sue for her hand. He became almost sick with mortification. What a boor she must think him, how gross! It would serve him right if she rose and left the room haughtily, and never spoke to him again. But she did not do this; instead, she was regarding him with the brightest of expressions, and her soft pink lips were parted as though she waited eagerly. Fascinated, overcome, he looked into her eyes, and thought confusedly that he had never seen anything so radiant, so exquisitely trustful. Why, he thought, humbly, she loves me!

  The thought was so shattering, so full of splendor and joy, that he felt that he was about to burst into tears. He forgot
everything, everything, except that he loved this girl and she loved him, that he could have her as soon as he wished. He took her hands in his and kissed them, his lips shaking. He could feel the trembling of the small white fingers in his. All at once he was afraid, afraid that he might some day hurt her, that he might not be what she wanted. He released her hands with an aching reluctance. The devil with etiquette! He would speak, now!

  The door opened at this very critical moment and Gregory and May Sessions entered. May bounced and glided coquettishly to the fire, and stood before it, fluttering her kerchief before her face. Gregory came behind Amy’s chair and touched her head with his hand in a caress of great tenderness. But he looked at Ernest, smiling genially. He thought: I pray to God he has had sufficient decency and decorum not to speak to her yet!

  He said: “Ernest, you were a little precipitate this afternoon, about the loan of that money. Also, I did not have time to go over those papers. I shall be at the bank most of tomorrow, and so, if you care to, you and I can adjourn to the library and discuss this fully.”

  Ernest thought exultantly: “Luck is surely with me! I shall convince him of my worthiness tonight, and ask him for Amy.”

  They both formally begged the ladies to excuse them for a while, and permission being graciously given, they left the room together. Gregory was feeling distinctly sick; he had seen Amy’s radiance, the soft color in her face. He felt that she followed them with her eyes, and he knew, with deep pain, what she was thinking. I can almost pray, he thought, that he will not be as I would be. Half an hour ago I was ready to knock him down for his presumption; now, remembering my poor Amy’s face, I only hope he will be presumptuous!

  The library was lit only by a great fire, and Gregory took some moments to light the candles. A cold premonition was on him; he wanted to delay what he must finally face. Ernest laid an envelope of papers on the immense mahogany table with its clawed feet; there was about him a serene and confident air, as though he had realized everything he had ever desired. In the light of the candles his face looked strong, yet young, and incredibly handsome; it was as though a stone face had come to life. The premonition lightened in Gregory; surely, if he loved Amy like this he would never give her up, even if she hadn’t a solitary penny to her name!

  They sat down, and Gregory poured two glasses of brandy, and put a gilt box of cigars on the table. “Now, let us see those papers,” he said in an almost affectionately bantering voice. He glanced humorously at Ernest with his hard bright eyes, his lips lifting in a faintly satirical smile.

  Ernest had never talked so well, so to the point, so pungently and convincingly. He was fighting, not only for his ambitions, but for Amy, also. So well trained and disciplined was his mind that he could put her face out of it, and concentrate on the matter at hand. Fighting for her, he forgot her in the fighting. He spoke with an adroitness rare with him; everything became clear, confident, irresistible. There is no failure in him, thought Gregory bitterly. He will always get what he wants. He listened to his guest with a grim surprise, watched the flash and play of expression on a face that was usually implacable and expressionless. And as he watched and listened, something in him became colder and harder with fear. He turned the papers over mechanically, nodded mechanically, smiled when he considered it expected of him. And heard and saw absolutely nothing except his own sick thoughts.

  He glanced suddenly at the clock on the mantelpiece. They had been here almost an hour, and he had said nothing! Forcing himself to smile, he laid aside the papers. Ernest, in the midst of a telling argument, stopped abruptly, frowning somewhat. Gregory yawned elaborately.

  “You have quite convinced me, Ernest,” he said. “But convincing the other directors is another matter. However, I will take these papers to them tomorrow, and discuss it at length. Another glass of brandy?”

  Ernest accepted, expanding. Disliking the taste of alcohol as he did, he felt he could endure it tonight. He sipped the brandy, stared raptly at the papers on the table. He did not see Gregory clasp his hands, lean forward toward him. He did not see the wrinkling of pain on his face.

  “You have not visited us for some time now, Ernest.” He made his tone casual and exceedingly friendly. “Of course, it is rather dull here, with an old man and one young girl. But we are changed, now. May is a lively young lady, and will brighten up this quiet house. Amy has been kept like a nun here, and I am hoping that May will enliven her, show her what it is to be young.”

  “Miss Sessions is to remain some time?” asked Ernest politely.

  Gregory carefully cut the end of another cigar, threw it meticulously into the fire before answering. And when he did answer he did not look at Ernest.

  “Oh, yes, she will remain. Probably for a long time. Maybe permanently. After all, you see, this is her home. She was born here, her father and mine were born here. Her father was eighteen years younger than mine, and married rather late in life. When Nicholas and I die, this house will belong to her. Everything will belong to her, our mills and foundries and mines. Our fathers were very devoted; they built up the Company together. May’s father died two years before mine died, and my father’s will left all he possessed to myself and my brother, and upon our deaths, to May. We are her guardians, and in addition to her already large fortune left to her by her father, she will, as I have said, have ours.”

  He paused. He affected to be deeply interested as to why his cigar did not smoke well; he frowned, muttered, brought out his penknife and trimmed it again. He knew that Ernest had not moved so much as a finger, nor turned his head, nor uttered a word, yet, without visible movement, Gregory could feel that he had become rigid. There was more violence in this silent rigidity than in an open cry or oath. Gregory put the cigar in his mouth and lit it; he prayed that the young man did not see how his hands were shaking. He signed deeply.

  “My sister, Amy, was cut from my father’s will entirely, so my poor little Amy, here, has absolutely nothing. My father enjoined Nicholas and myself to protect, guard and cherish May, and allow not one cent of income derived from his property to be diverted to Amy. We respected him very much; we would never go against his wishes.”

  There was a silence. Finally, Gregory forced himself to look at Ernest. The young man sat in his chair like a statue; his face was deadly pale, the hands on the arms of the chair were clenched. But his expression was quite calm, his eyes straight and piercing as ever, as he regarded the older man. A horrible sinking sensation struck at Gregory’s stomach, as though he were about to be sick. He made himself smile, picked up the papers as if to resume his survey of them.

  “I don’t know why I tell you all this, Ernest. It cannot be of the slightest interest to you. I don’t usually make a confidant of any one, but I have been worried lately as to what will become of my little Amy when I am dead.”

  He stopped. And waited. Waited as he had never waited for anything with such frightful intensity before, not even when he watched by his dying father’s bedside. Now, he thought, he will speak if he intends having her without a penny, having her just for her sweet self. Surely, he will speak if he will have her. My God, let him speak! I shall never forget her face tonight, when we came in the room: God, let him speak!

  But Ernest did not speak. In fact, he looked as though he couldn’t have spoken if he had tried. He had turned his head ever so slightly, and was now staring directly at the fire. His face was gray stone, carved and still, over which the firelight cast a specious change of expressions. At one moment he appeared to be smiling slightly, at another, to be grimacing in torment, at another, as if he had become ill. Gregory thought: Poor devil, it is as if the firelight shone on his soul, on his mind, and brought out their expressions through the thickness of his flesh. Even in his own pain, he was full of the strangest pity for this very young man who had gotten everything he had wanted, but this.

  If I do not speak, he continued to himself, this will become rather shameful. We know each other’s thoughts. He opened his mou
th to speak, and was horrified that his voice, when it emerged, was hoarse.

  “Of course,” he said, “Amy will probably be married by the time I die, anyway.” He smiled, and so dry were his lips that they cracked painfully when the smile spread them. “I am aware that she has had proposals, and it is only a matter of weeks until she accepts one.”

  Ernest stirred, turned his face. As though by some acute sixth sense, Gregory knew what an effort these movements cost him. Throughout his own muscles he could feel the strain and the pull, the heartsickness of the struggle, the terrible battle of the will.

  “I am sure,” Ernest’s voice said, expressionlessly, formally, “that Miss Amy has not wanted for suitors. You are only in the prime of life, sir, and I believe you are worrying yourself unnecessarily.” His voice stopped, dully.

  Suddenly Gregory hated him. His pity was burned to a cinder in the flame of his hate. He half rose in his chair with an impulse to crash his fist into that heavy young face with the unreadable eyes. He fell back, and panted. But Ernest was not looking at him, so he was spared this final shame. He felt a cold drop on his cheek, and was objectively amazed to discover that his forehead was wet with an icy sweat. With hands that shook visibly, he poured himself a large glass of brandy and gulped it down. Drawing the glass away from his mouth to set it upon the table, he stopped halfway in the gesture, and stared at Ernest. Ernest was calmly looking at his large gold watch. As he looked at it, he pursed his mouth judiciously, and frowned.

  “It is almost eleven! And I have accounts to check over before I go to bed.” He stood up, quite without an effort now. The life and light had left his face, but he was quite composed and inscrutable. Gregory laid down his glass and stood up also; he felt that eternities passed between each of his movements. His whole body ached as if it had been held in an intolerable strain through many hours. The two men regarded each other steadily. If you say what you would like to say, it will make it impossible for us to meet again, ever to have business with each other again, Ernest’s cold eyes seemed to say. In the bright blue of Gregory’s eyes something flickered like the flash of a snake’s head. You have shamed me and my house, struck at a sweet girl’s heart, said Gregory silently to him in reply to that silently projected thought. And then, suddenly, his face became ironic, satirically bitter: You have done what I would have done! You have done what I did! May your portion be as happy as mine has been.