Dynasty of Death

by Taylor Caldwell

  Ernest examined his fingernails. “What is it this time?” he asked casually.

  “How should I know! A week ago it was Jules’ impudence, then Leon’s slyness, then François’ screaming. The week before it was offense because I disagreed with her about the discipline I was using on Chandler and Betsy. Mama is so indulgent to the children, though I can’t remember she was ever indulgent to us. Sometimes I think she hates all the children except Philippe, and she only likes him because she really had the rearing of him, I being so weak after he was born, and because she says that he looks like Pa, though that’s ridiculous, for Philippe looks just like his father’s family—”

  Three little boys, aged about twelve, ten and eight, respectively, came into the room to bid their mother good night. They were all very dark and wiry, slightly undersized and colorless, with long thin faces, black eyes and puckered mouths. Ernest always thought of Armand when he saw them. He privately thought them excessively ugly. He terrified them, filled them with suspicion, and they were always quiet and subdued when he was present, even lowering their rather shrill and exigent voices to whispers, as though in the presence of a danger.

  He shook hands with them, with Leon, the “deep” one, with Jules, the sly one, with François, who was given to silent and violent hysterias (he used to have “fits” when he was a baby). Their similarity never failed to amuse him. He might have been friends with Leon, had the child encouraged him, for there was a somber intelligence in his deep-set, somewhat sullen eyes, and wit showing in the flexible lines of his puckered lips. But Leon never encouraged him; he maintained a precociously mature reserve.

  As though she were subconsciously made aware again of their ugliness and big stiff ears, Florabelle said absently: “Betsy is more like a cherub every day, and Chandler is the handsomest little boy in Quaker Terrace. There, kiss Mama, and Papa, dears, and Uncle Ernest, and go to bed. Where’s Nurse? Upstairs? Well, go at once to her.”

  Jules kissed his mother, balked at the Major and his uncle, and led the little procession out of the room again; the children walked Indian-file, which enormously amused Ernest, and he burst out laughing. The little boys did not heed this laughter, though Jules’ ears turned fiery red.

  “You’re always laughing at them, Ernest,” Florabelle remarked, annoyed.

  Major Norwood stood in great awe of Ernest, and had a tremendous reverence for him. He had a vague idea that Ernest considered him negligible, if good-tempered, and was always earnestly trying to prove to him that he was quite wrong. So he asked seriously: “And how is business, sir? I see by the papers that your military contracts were renewed, in spite—er—of the trouble about those patents in France during the war—er—between France and Prussia, and shipping the explosives—”

  “Yes, the contracts were renewed,” replied Ernest pleasantly.

  The Major sweated with the strain of his efforts and pleasure at Ernest’s amiability. A moisture came out over his blue limpid eyes, and he leaned toward the younger man.

  “And the French Government no longer suspects you of implication in Monsieur Schultz’s dealing with the Prussian enemy, sir?”

  “No, indeed. Though Schultz lost his head over it, I believe him innocent.” Nothing could have been blander than Ernest’s face.

  The Major made a regretful clucking sound, and shook his head. “Such tales the papers do make up! Libel! Sir, the law is very inadequate about libel. Something should be done—”

  “Only small fry are concerned with libel,” said Ernest, smiling.

  The Major became quite excited, and his eyes flashed blue, honest fire. “But, sir! They actually stated, in editorials, that it was at your suggestion that Schultz negotiated with the damn Prussians for the sale and shipping of munitions out of France into enemy territory! That is outrageous! Surely, you are not going to let it pass? A gentleman in your position?”

  “Let the dogs bark,” said Ernest. He suppressed a small yawn and glanced at his watch. The Major sank back into his chair, his broad face still flushed, his eyes still flashing. He bit the end of a cigar with great vigor, shook his head, and muttered: “Damn lying yellow sheets!” Nevertheless, his simple heart was wounded; he suspected that Ernest had snubbed him, and he shrank a little.

  Ernest stood up. “Well, I’ll run upstairs and see Ma now.” At that moment Philippe came into the room, carrying a book and a basket of peaches. He started when he saw his hated uncle, who he knew hated him in turn. But there was a French courtesy in his quiet greeting. Ernest muttered a reply; the amiability had quite gone from his face. Philippe kissed his mother. “Good night, Mama. I’m going to my room, now.” Florabelle looked up at him affectionately. He reminded her acutely, in some ways, of his father, whom she had loved more than any one in all her life. “Mind you, don’t throw the peachstones on the floor, as usual,” she warned him, patting his cheek.

  The youth shook the Major’s hand, bowed formally to Ernest, and left the room.

  “He’s such a student,” said Florabelle fondly. “He’s been reading for hours in the library, and now he’ll read for an hour or two in bed, before going to sleep.”

  “I’ll wager it isn’t anything practical that he’s reading,” said Ernest acidly. “Florrie, I’ve told you over and over there’s a place for him in the bank, or in any of the shop offices at any time, and if you had a grain of intelligence you’d insist that he start at once, instead of finishing his silly school. After all, he has your estate to think of, and your present affairs. The sooner he becomes familiar with them the better for every one.”

  “I don’t see you forcing Frey into the business just yet,” replied Florabelle maliciously, glaring at him. She was pleased when he colored. “Well, Ernest, Philippe isn’t Godfrey, and he knows his duty. He is quite willing to go into the shops or the bank when he is eighteen, but he wants to finish at St. Therese’s; he has hardly two more years.”

  “Well, all I wish is that the family had more lads in it like Paul,” replied Ernest. He left the room without another word, and went upstairs to the second story.

  “Paul!” murmured Florabelle viciously to her husband. “Everything is Paul! He’s trying to force him on Trudie, and the girl despises him, and no wonder. I don’t like her, but I sympathize with her just the same. But Ernest always did have a weakness for that branch of the family—” She nodded, gloatingly.

  “My dear!” whispered the Major, aghast, with a glance at the empty doorway. “He may hear you! After all, it’s only gossip—”

  Ernest tapped on his mother’s door. There was no answer. He rattled the knob. “Ma,” he said impatiently. There was a faint creaking inside, the sound of slow heavy footsteps, and the door opened.

  “Come in,” said Hilda somberly. “So there you are, you rascal. I knew they’d send for you when they’d had enough.”

  Ernest glanced about the room with distaste, his distended nostrils quivering. “The devil, Ma, why don’t you open a window?” He flung open the windows, his arms entangling themselves in the dusty curtains. The room smelt, but the warm night air, pouring in, cleansed and purified it.

  Hilda had brought her own furniture to Florabelle’s house, and the hideous old mahogany bed and bowed chest of drawers, rocking chairs, commode with its china pitcher sprawling with pink roses, filled the smallish room chokingly. Her own dark red rug covered the floor; beloved old paintings, dim behind rococo gilt frames, covered the walls. Though, of course, there was no fire, Hilda had evidently been sitting before the grate, for the chair was pulled close to the fender. A sweetish-sour odor hung in the air, mingled with essence of peppermint. Old Hilda was fond of lozenges. She had evidently just finished a snack before bedtime, for a demolished tray stood on a dusty table beside the rumpled bed. She had lit only one candle (she disliked lamps) and its hot feeble rays smouldered on the mantelpiece.

  Hilda sat down on her chair near the fireplace, bolt upright, for all her stoutness, and folded her hands in her lap. Her handsome old
face, a fat ruin now, had set itself in belligerent lines, the under lip stioking out like a shelf. Her white hair was untidily bundled under a dingy lace cap, but her black bombazine had a ruffle of white at the throat.

  “Well, can’t you sit down?” she demanded, raising her voice.

  Ernest leaned against the mantelpiece, after frowning at its dust, and smiled down at his mother.

  “What’s all this nonsense about locking yourself up in this room like a child, Ma? Do you realize how unpleasant this is for Florabelle? After all, she has a houseful of servants and children to take care of, and she can’t very well spend her time—”

  “Taking care of a silly old woman!” growled Hilda. “Go on, say it. I don’t mind. I’ve had worse things said to me.” She seemed to crumple a little. “I’m not beholden to Florabelle like a pauper. I’ve my own money. She gets her share of it, and the brats do, too, on birthdays and Christmas, and other times. So, because I’m not beholden to her, I think I’m entitled to my moods, too. God knows she’s got enough of ’em herself. I never saw such a flutter-budget in my life. She gets worse as she grows older. It’s enough to drive that poor man down there mad.”

  She glared up at her son, full of pathetic fight. I’m not needed any more, but don’t dare to say that to me! she seemed to cry soundlessly. Ernest felt uncomfortable, examined the nail of his index finger minutely, and then bit it.

  “You aren’t helping to keep him from going mad,” he said. “Major Norwood is an innocent, and I believe you are making his life disagreeable. Florrie has her faults, no doubt, but avoidance of duty is not one of them. She’d be only too glad to let you help her, and advise her, if you didn’t go at it hammer and tongs.”

  “But she lets it get like Bedlam!” cried Hilda desperately. “She—” She stopped abruptly, for Ernest was looking about the bedroom with elaborate significance.

  “If this isn’t Bedlam, I’d like to know what it is, Ma. Filthy. Smelly. Before you lecture Florrie on her housekeeping, you might try keeping this room neater, or at least letting the servants in.”

  Hilda burst into tears. She rocked herself to and fro in her tremendous old rocker, as though moving in the rhythms of grief, covering her face with her kerchief. “It’s not all this at all!” she sobbed. “It’s deeper than this. I’m lonely and miserable, and—”

  “Lonely with a houseful of children, and your own daughter?” cut in Ernest. “And in the same city, your son, and another daughter, and all their children? God knows, we’ve always made you welcome—”

  Hilda snatched her hands from her face, which was now contorted and empurpled. Her old eyes, sunken in nests of fat wrinkles, blazed upon him. “Made me welcome! D’ye think I want to be made welcome? If you do, you’re a worse fool than I thought you, Ernest Barbour! Mothers of real children are never ‘made welcome,’ any more than a mother makes her children welcome. Like—guests, or relatives you don’t like. I’m not a relative; I’m not a guest. I’m your Mother! And I might as well be a dog without a penny—”

  “Don’t keep harping on the money Pa left you, Ma,” said Ernest distastefully. “We know all about that. We realize you aren’t a pauper.”

  But Hilda, broken-hearted, had begun to weep again. “No one wants me! No one cares whether I live or die. You’d all be glad if I pegged out; I know you! I’m a nuisance, a mithering old woman who ought to know better than going on living. If I tell Florrie that she’s spoiling the little ones, she gets uppish and snaps my nose off; if I tell her she’s hard on the old Major, she tells me I vexed my Joe in the old days.” The tears ran down her face, filling the furrows, running over her lips, and like a child she tasted the saltiness of them with the tip of her tremulous tongue.

  Ernest gazed over her head, frowning, drumming with his fingers on the mantel. “You’re always pitying yourself, Ma. We want to make you happy. What do you want? Within reason, we’ll give you anything you want.”

  Hilda was silent. She tugged at a pocket in the fold of her dress and pulled out a crushed handkerchief, which she applied to her eyes and nose. The fight had gone out of her; her old hands trembled, and she looked sick and beaten. Ernest pursed his lips as he looked down at her, and when she finally glanced up and saw his face, a sort of wild fright seized her. She waved her hands in agitation, as though to ward off something. “I wish we’d never left home!” she cried.

  Ernest had to smile, though a little thinly. “Just listen to yourself, Ma! Aren’t you being a little silly? Would you have had us remain in England, servants and bootlickers and grooms? We’re people of consequence now, the richest family in Windsor, one of the richest in the State, and the country. All in thirty-odd years, too.” His voice became more and more the voice of one who speaks impatiently to a child. But Hilda’s eyes had begun to flash, her breath to come quickly in loud gusts.

  “I’m not proud of it,” she answered in the loud portentous tones of a woman who speaks courageously and in truth. “I’m not proud of it, Ernest Barbour. I’ve waited a long time to talk, and it’s roiled in me until I can’t abide it any longer. I’ve got to speak.

  “What has all the money brought us? Look at your own face in that glass there, over the mantel, and see for yourself! Is it the kind of face you’d want your daughter’s husband to have, the kind he’d show her on the wedding night? Ask yourself! It isn’t even the face of my son. It’s the face of a scoundrel, a highwayman. And that’s all you are—a highwayman. You drove your Pa down to his death, you made his last years miserable, with your connivings and your treacheries. He couldn’t even die peaceful because of you. Night after night,” and now her voice broke, grew stern with sobs, “I heard him crying in his sleep, and it was always Ernest doing this and Ernest doing that, and where was it going to end, and making money from Englishmen dying in the Crimea, probably shot down by guns made by us and sold underhand to the Russians. Your Pa never was much for the munitions business, not in wartime, anyway, and it set badly on him. He talked easily about it, the killing and all, but it gave him nightmares; he tried to be hard and brave and easy-like about it, but it killed him. No, don’t you dare interrupt me! I’m not finished yet!

  “He was afraid of you. Yes, he was afraid of you. Afraid because he knew you were cruel and had no heart in you. I didn’t agree with him about Georgie—I thought you did right. At first. And then I saw that you really weren’t upset because Georgie was a thief; you always were a thief, yourself. All you wanted was to get him out of the business so you could manage it yourself; he was in your way, and what he had was worth something, and you wanted it. Poor Joe knew it; he was cleverer than me. I never was a clever one to read the dirty minds of rascals. And because he knew all this, and was afraid of you, and tried to hate you, it killed my poor Joe. You made me a widow, Ernest Barbour, and before God, you’ll answer for it!”

  She stood up suddenly, so suddenly that the chair swung back and fell over. She faced her son, trembling violently, her livid old face streaming with tears, her eyes beating upon him with contempt and denunciation.

  “Don’t be a fool, Ma,” said Ernest sharply. He moved away from the mantel a little, putting a few steps between himself and his mother. “If you insist on talking like a damn fool, I’ll go. I came down here to see what I could do for you—”

  “Do for me?” she almost screamed, as though in astonished outrage. “Do for me? What could you ever do for any one, you scoundrel? What have you ever done for any one, except yourself? Who have you ever served, but yourself? Who have you ever loved, but yourself? Look you, it’s no time for fancy words now, my lad. Out with it! Who have you ever cared for but yourself? Amy? Amy, your dead brother’s wife? Ah, I know all about that, my fine cock! Thanks to all the money you’ve got, you can’t go anywhere without being seen—!” Her voice ended in a choked gurgle, for Ernest had put his hand savagely over her mouth, and was holding her in a grip like iron.

  “Quiet!” he whispered. “Quiet!” as she struggled impotently. Over the rim o
f his hand she glared up at him in her rage and detestation. Even the balefulness of his light and distended eyes, the murderous and silent violence of his expression, could not daunt the desperate old woman. She tugged at his hand, sunk her nails into it, wrenched it from her face. Every one of her facial muscles twitched with palsy under her livid skin. In a deep mad silence mother and son regarded each other with hatred.

  Hilda’s panting, like a gust, filled the room. “I’ll never forgive that,” she whispered at last. She put her handkerchief to her lips, and as she did so a strange glazed expression settled over her glittering old eyes. “I’ll never forgive that,” she said aloud. She dropped the handkerchief, struggled for self-control; she put her hand to her head, and began to speak again to Ernest, who had gone to a window and was looking through it at the night.

  “I’ve seen you for what you are,” she said, in a low, almost meditative voice. “I thank God for that. I can go on with what I’ve got to say. You’re not my son any longer. You’re a devil that’s gotten into my lad’s skin.

  “You’ve helped us all to money, not that you cared whether any of us had it or not. But you were pulling it after you, and so we were caught in the edges. But what has it given any of us, I ask you? It killed my poor Martin, who never hurt a fly, and who was an angel if there ever was one. And you drove him to his death, too, just as you did his father! You killed Martin. Aren’t you proud of that? Yes, I think you are proud. You made all his poor life wretched, and ended up by killing him, just as if you’d pulled the trigger yourself. You tried to rob him, and when you couldn’t you killed him. And sometimes I think you killed old Mr. Gregory, too.”

  “You’re mad,” said Ernest softly, without turning. “You ought to be in Bedlam.”