Dynasty of Death

by Taylor Caldwell

  Finally he turned away, faced the dark chill room. “Yet,” he thought, “I would not do anything different from what I have done. I would do it over again.” He promised himself, as he left the house, that his rein of discipline would never relax in the future, that a man has no business to indulge himself in fancies and vapors and melancholies. He had work to do.

  So steadfastly did he adhere to this that he could speak to Amy, who had avoided him for some time, with impersonal and brotherly affection, looking at her with a vague though friendly eye. He could speak to Martin with more than ordinary intimacy and consideration. And these were not mere affectations; he could actually control his thoughts and his emotions, bend them to his will. But even as he did so, he knew that his love for Amy was a violent prisoner that might burst its prison at any time, devastating and destroying all that he had built in his life. He did not make the mistake of calling himself a sentimental fool; he was too honest with himself for that. So he recognized the danger in which he stood, and slowly and laboriously he built up a wall of determined indifference and cold resistance against it. The fact that he was sincerely fond of May, that she diverted, amused and coddled him, loved him passionately, helped him to control himself; it was not that this control was based on honor and a sense of duty toward her—it was based purely on his strong instinct of self-preservation and a desire to continue the pleasant relationship with his wife. Moreover, the thought of the first of his children excited him. They would inherit the dynasty he would build. They would live in this house for which he had sacrificed a glory and a splendor and a delight; they would love this house as he did, and perhaps sacrifice themselves for it as he had done.

  Perhaps it was because of some subconscious desire to make Amy happy, some recognition of the fact that she had loved him, that he cultivated Martin so assiduously. He encouraged Martin to express ideas about the laborers in the shops, affected to consider very seriously the halting of the importation of labor, pretended to feel horror at some of Martin’s passionate accounts of slavery in the South. Martin found himself, though still distrustful, telling his brother something of what he had done to help escaping slaves. He watched Ernest anxiously as he told these things, but Ernest’s face, to his relief, expressed only thoughtful concern and interest, and even sympathy. But Ernest was thinking: My God, what foolishness, what criminal lack of common sense! And what a position we will all be in if he is caught at it! I’ve got to put a stop to all this. He tried to get Martin to tell him the names of his confederates, but Martin, suddenly wary, suddenly unconsciously warned, refused to tell. Ernest looked at that handsome, that resolute and anxious face, and hated him. And at the stirring of that bitter hate, the prisoner behind the wall was aroused, and cried.

  But one thing Martin guarded from everyone, and that was his conversion to “Romanism.” It was sacred to him, though he wore its mental garments uneasily, as he would wear a strange uniform to which he must become accustomed. And now that he was going to marry Amy a veritable chaos was tumbling and thundering in him, a condition that no one suspected at all behind what Ernest called his “frozen face.” But that “frozen face,” as disdainfully termed by Ernest, was merely a window behind which Martin, in his vehement desire to protect himself from exigencies and situations with which he could not cope, drew opaque and characterless blinds. Behind the blankness, he could conduct his struggles, indulge in his despairs, fight out his fights, without fear of the pointing curiosity of others.

  So he went to Father Dominick in his little shabby cottage behind the little shabby brownstone church. The priest, who was of French extraction, was very short, very round and fat, very bald, very genial, very subtle and kind, and exceedingly intelligent. When he led Martin into the closed dankness of his small and hideous parlor, he expressed his jubiliation and thanks for Martin’s recent gift to the church of five thousand dollars. “And that,” he said, ringing a small bell violently to summon his old housekeeper to bring in coffee and fruit cake, “with your other gifts, my dear Martin, will enable us to start building our new church. Do you realize, my son, that you and Mr. John Slattery of the Tanneries are the only rich men in Windsor who are Catholics? And Mr. Slattery is sometimes remiss—Ah, well. He has a large family, and families frequently make men greedy. It is well that you have no family, will never have one, for your gifts to the unfortunate must certainly draw heavily on your resources. What the Sisters’ Hospital in Garnerstown would have done without your fifteen thousand dollars is something I cannot endure thinking about. They have ten new beds now, and can afford a good doctor on the staff. But tell me,” he said with animation, as he lavishly sugared his coffee, “how is our dear son, Jacques Bouchard? I noticed him at Mass last Sunday, and he looked excessively ill. What an affliction! But how beautifully borne! And what a face—like an angel’s, so patient and purged of all wickedness.”

  Martin was silent. In the gloom of the parlor, the happily chatting priest, who had few visitors, did not notice his silence. He drank his coffee with noisy enjoyment, stuffed whole slices of cake into his mouth, mumbling over them. What he said was naïve and enthusiastic, with a sort of childlike simplicity, but there was none of this simplicity in his small and penetrating eyes. Replete at last, he wiped his hands on his handkerchief, beamed upon Martin, and prepared to bestow on him his entire attention.

  “And now, I presume, you are come to tell me that you are leaving at once for Quebec. Ah, what a privilege to leave the world, not when one is old and broken and disillusioned, but with youth and ardor and strength undiminished, ready to be poured out in service to the Lord!” He sighed, beamed again, then seeing Martin’s face, sharpened his eyes upon it, his smile fading. Martin stood up, took a turn about the room, then began to speak, his foot on the fender of the little lurking fire, his profile outlined in dim crimson.

  “Father, I came today to tell you I can’t go to Quebec. I came to tell you that I love someone, that I am going to marry her.” He did not turn toward the priest, but waited for his answer. This did not come; the dimness increased in the room, the fire snapped in discouragement. Finally Martin turned to him. Father Dominick’s face was impassive; he was regarding Martin intently. Impulsively, Martin went to him, stood before him. “Please understand, Father,” he said desperately. “I couldn’t go. It wouldn’t be right. I do not want to go.”

  The priest took his eyes from Martin’s face, stared steadfastly at the floor. He began to frown, plucking the coarse stuff of his shabby pantaloons between his thumb and finger. He spoke, without looking at Martin:

  “Are you certain of all this? Are you sure it is not a passing infatuation in which young men frequently indulge? Will you not regret this?”

  “I will not regret it! I love this girl. She is Miss Amy Drumhill—”

  He stopped, for the priest was gazing at him in astonishment and wonder. The gaze lasted for several long moments, and as it did so a subtle change came into it. It became speculative, obscurely excited, exceedingly thoughtful. The priest began to speak, slowly and carefully, still regarding Martin with that odd expression: “You must be certain, my son. When you first came to me with Jacques Bouchard, asking me to help you both to enter a monastery, I was certain that Jacques had a vocation. Of you, I was not so sure. That is why I made you wait a year before writing to Quebec. Even then, I had a few doubts. Finally I decided that I was in error, that you indeed had a vocation, that you had never been of the world and would never be of it. But I see I was wrong.

  “Do not look so distressed, Martin. Better men than you have been mistaken. And it is well that they have discovered this in time. I can see that you are afraid that you have done something heinous. Not so, my son, not so. God does not wish the services of those who cannot give them willingly. Besides, there are more ways than one to serve God. The good father, the good husband, the faithful and pious head of a family, also serves our Lord. God has been good and merciful in pointing out to you before it is too late that you reall
y have no vocation, and that you can best serve Him in the ways of the world.” He stood up and waddled over to Martin, and took his arm. “Go, my son, and marry Miss Amy Drumhill. I have seen her, in her carriage, and have heard of her. A fine lady, a truly great lady. She will bear your children in the fear of the Lord, and bring you happiness. But there is one thing you must remember. Though she will probably insist upon a Protestant marriage, you must not forget that you are a Catholic, and there must be another marriage by a Catholic priest, and your children must be Catholics.”

  Martin was almost incredulous in his relief and joy. “You mean, Father, that I have your blessing?”

  “Most certainly. But tell me, what does our dear son Jacques Bouchard think of this? Is he not most terribly disappointed?”

  Martin turned aside. “I have not told him,” he said in a low voice.

  “Has he not suspected something?”

  Martin hesitated. His expression lost its animation and joy. “I think he has. Yes, I am certain he has. But I haven’t told him yet. But now, I can. I’m going to him now.”

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  The Bouchard family was just finishing its evening meal when Martin arrived. He was greeted with exuberant affection by everyone, except Eugene, who was reserved with Martin for Ernest’s sake. Madam Bouchard issued booming orders to the fat maid to set another place for Martin, and she herself lumbered to the kitchen to see what delicacies her larder held. Armand, who despite his prosperity still removed his boots at night and toasted his socks before the fire, sat in his huge chair, smoking, a small brown gnome whose sharp eyes gleamed and flashed even when he was silent. Feeling at ease in the unaffected and unselfconscious household as he never felt in his own, Martin ate and drank and listened and smiled and commented. Raoul had not returned from his second European foraging for new laborers for the voracious mills and factories of Barbour & Bouchard, and there was a definite gap in the atmosphere.

  Jacques, who had finished his meal, moved his twisted body back to the table in order to sit with his friend, and his mother, encouraged by this, slyly heaped a plate with small cakes and filled another cup of coffee, and pushed them in front of her beloved son. She knew that he would be absorbed in Martin, and would eat mechanically, thereby acquiring another supply of nourishment.

  “You have not been to see us for four days,” said Jacques softly, his face glowing with affection and contentment as he looked at Martin. But he did not speak so softly (he could never speak so softly), that his mother did not hear.

  “That is true!” she exclaimed hoarsely. “How you have been neglecting my Jacques! He watches by the window, like a girl, for you, and will not eat, and languishes. Assassin!” she added playfully, giving Martin a push on the shoulder. But her fiery eyes were not playful, and her smile had something fierce and threatening in it.

  Jacques smiled indulgently at Martin, as though begging his patience with his mother; but Martin, sick with uneasiness, saw that his smile was also self-conscious and significant.

  “You forget, maman,” he said to his mother, putting his thin arm partially about her enormous waist, “that Martin is a busy man, and I am just a useless bundle of bones eating up the family substance.”

  “Tiens! You eat no more than a sparrow, my Jacques!” Madam Bouchard raised her voice to a shout and glared upon her son with great ferocity, but the hand that touched his head was tremulous and tender with pain. Her face, so huge and dark and sullen, with its enormous out-thrust underlip and hint of mustache at the corners of the upper lip, turned upon Martin. “Tell me, is he not fatter? Does he not look better?”

  “Yes, he looks very well,” answered Martin, forcing his dry mouth to stretch itself to a smile. But Jacques, with the alertness of one who is always afraid, always watching for the thief, saw that Martin’s forehead was faintly damp and that he was quite pale as though tormented with anxiety. There was a sick thrust of fear in the cripple’s stomach, a tightening of his emaciated muscles. He stared at Martin earnestly, noted that though Martin brought the coffee cup to his lips he did not drink, did not touch the food he turned with his fork. A lump that threatened to choke him rose in Jacques’ throat. He moistened lips hot with a sudden fever of terror. He panted a little, and his eyes rolled about the room. How to get alone with Martin, take him away from this press of family, force him to allay his desperate fears? Ah, a new case of books had arrived that day and was waiting to be opened in his room: he would take Martin there at once on this pretext. But before he could gather his voice strongly enough to speak, Armand was talking to Martin.

  “Has Joe been to his doctor lately, Martin?”

  “No, he will not go, though Ma begs him every day,” answered Martin, anxiously. “He says we are mollycoddles, that there is nothing at all wrong with him. But he eats nothing, and we hear him groaning in his sleep at night. His color is very bad, also. We think it must be his liver.”

  Armand shook his head slowly, regarded the fire and smoked, and made no further comment. He had seen the mark of death on Joseph’s face. Martin, watching him with apprehension, waited for him to speak again, then seeing that he would not, pretended to drink his coffee. He dared not risk meeting Jacques’ eyes again; each time that he had done so the steadily shining light of love in them, the eager smile, were more than he could bear. He was also painfully aware, with surprise, that the light and the smile had become annoying to him, that they were like hands seeking to clutch him tightly, that there was something morbid in them. He was shocked at these thoughts, tried to feel touched at Jacques’ evident joy and contentment that he was there, and succeeded only in rousing a passionate thought that he would give anything to be out of that house. Then he remembered that he had come here to disrupt Jacques’ entire life and throw it down, and he was ill with anxiety and remorse again.

  Eugene, aloof but courteous, asked him something about the new military contracts; it was but a polite inquiry, and Eugene was quite aware of the fact that he knew a great deal more of the business of Barbour & Bouchard than did the self-absorbed and removed Martin. When Martin replied, vaguely and uncertainly, Eugene regarded him mildly but with inner contempt and pity. What a child it is! he thought, and looked at Martin’s fine slender body and length of limb with a certain wonder and perplexity. And then his dark and stolid face warmed, and he smiled at Martin with sudden affection. Martin’s fair hair and blue eyes, his posture and slight gestures, reminded him of little Dorcas, who was his especial adoration.

  Jacques finally was able to separate Martin from the family and take him into his own room. Once there, he was on the point of bursting into hysterical recriminations, accusing Martin of neglect and indifference, when he remembered, with a tightening of his shaking lips, that words frequently brought things into the open that might have lain harmless in the silent darkness. Words, he thought, were a fatal precipitant. So he forced himself to smile, poked ineffectually at the fire, and surrendered the poker with a weak laugh to the stronger hands of Martin. Martin knelt on the stone hearth, vigorously stirred up the short thick logs; the fire, turning to a sheet of resinous yellow, flung a glaring light into the room, bathing Martin with a flame like lightning. Never, thought Jacques, clasping his thin hands convulsively together, had he possessed such splendor, such beauty, such decisive strength. Involuntarily, one of his hands began to steal out, to touch Martin’s shoulder, then Jacques, becoming aware of his own gesture, sharply withdrew his hand, and turned crimson. A wave of heat, of ecstasy, of fear and love, ran fiercely over his maimed body. His heart began to beat with strange insistence, as though aware of something he himself did not know as yet.

  Martin stood up, the fire stirred to his satisfaction. But he did not turn to Jacques. Instead, he stood there on the hearth, his head bent, his eyes fixed on the flames. Thin muscles began to throb about his mouth.

  “Sit down, Martin,” said Jacques, leaning over the arm of his chair to pull another chair into place beside his for his friend. But Mar
tin did not sit down. He turned to Jacques; now his back was to the fire and Jacques could not see his face.

  “Jacques, I must tell you something,” he said hurriedly. “I had to tell you, tonight. Not to tell you was lying. My God!” he added, his voice tight with despair, “I don’t know how I am to tell you!”