The Eagles Gather

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  He was quite touched by the emotion of his undemonstrative sister. He put his arm around her. “Why all the dramatics? This isn’t like you, Edith. What’s the trouble? And that reminds me: haven’t you found anyone around here that you’d have, yourself?” He pinched her chin, and released her.

  She tried to smile. “I’ll tell you when I do.” She patted the sides of her hair, so like black glass in the firelight. She did not look at him. “Henri, you say Christopher won’t object Of course he won’t. He likes you.” Henri said nothing, so Edith, thinking he had not heard her, repeated: “He likes you.”

  He shrugged. “Does he?” he asked indifferently. He turned his head aside.

  Something in his voice and manner frightened her. “Henri! Don’t you like him?”

  He did not speak for a moment, and then said quietly, and yet with such a deadly intonation that she could not believe it at first: “No, Edith. I don’t like him. In fact I hate him. I hate them all. All the Bouchards.” He tried to smile a little at her blank face and parted lips. “Except, of course, you and Celeste. And myself.”

  Even then she dimly wondered at this unusual dropping of reticence between them. She saw at once how hypocritical all their former pretenses of candor had been.

  “Then why,” she asked faintly, “did you ever come back here? You said, ‘among our own people—’”

  Again, he was silent before answering. “Yes, I said that. And I said I hated them. It’s true. All of it is true. It seems paradoxical, but it really isn’t. I suppose. We’ve both seen it lots of times, all over the world: relatives hating each other, envying each other, despising each other, secretly hoping for a chance to strike each other down. Then meeting amiably at family dinners, and giving presents, and visiting sick members, and handshaking, and kissing, and attending weddings and births. The superficial would say it is hypocrisy, sentimentality or suspicion, that brings them together. But I don’t believe it is any of these. Perhaps they see memories in each other—I’ll be becoming sentimental myself, in a moment! I don’t know. Or perhaps it is a relief to be among those who don’t have to be fooled—who know all about you. Like taking off tight shoes under the table. Or wearing old clothes.”

  Yes, thought Edith. That is true, too. But not all of the truth. She said, “But why do you particularly hate Christopher?”

  He yawned before replying, and then spoke in a bored voice: “I don’t hate him any worse than I do the others. By, the way, it’s almost time to go. Shall I get your wrap?”

  They went upstairs together to see old Thomas, who was convalescing. He was sifting before his fire, reading the evening paper. He glanced over his glasses at them, and smiled with pleasure.

  “Hello, my dears. I thought you had already gone.”

  Edith kissed him, ran her hand affectionately over his white hair. “Not yet, pet. But we’re going now. Are you comfortable? Do you mind us leaving you?”

  “No. Run along. Have a nice time. Give my love to little Annette, won’t you? Didn’t you say she was to be at the dinner?”

  “Yes.” It was Edith who spoke. Henri made a slight grimace.

  “Poor lamb,” sighed Thomas “The little girl haunts me And what a beautiful musician! Tell her I haven’t forgotten her Spring Nocturne. Have you heard it, Edith? I know you don’t like music much, either of you barbarians,” and he smiled tenderly, patting Edith’s hand. ‘But ask her to play it for you.”

  Alexander Bouchard, son of Andre, and vice-president of The Sessions Steel Company, lived in an ornate house of smooth white stone, grilled windows, iron balconies and bronze doors somewhat French in suggestion. He was big, fair, fat and solemn, his light curly hair thinning, his complexion a delicate magenta. He was known among his irreverent relatives as the Parson, for he was literally a pillar of St. Mary’s Episcopal Church of Windsor. Though enormously wealthy, he was, like many religious and church-going men, rather parsimonious and greedy and avaricious. He gave a good sum yearly to the support of the Church, but was not the largest giver. However, his friends and sycophants were induced by him to become members, also, which the minister found very comforting.

  Like so many of his solemn-faced and proverb-quoting kind, he was unconsciously hypocritical, malicious, mean, intolerant, reverent of money, small-minded and not particularly intelligent. But his obstinacy, methodical ways and donkey-tenacity of mind had enabled him to acquire the conventional amount of education, which, Christopher often asserted, had done him no good at all. He believed himself to be the only virtuous member of the Bouchard family, and allowed no one to be under the impression that it was a secret. He also firmly believed that he was a living example of the highest probity, good sense, piety, discipline, truthfulness, faithfulness, courage and firmness. Some members of the Bouchard family actually liked each other, more or less. But all of them cordially and heartily hated Alexander Bouchard.

  He had no genius, though privately believing that he was the “balance-wheel” of The Sessions Steel Company. But he was so conscientious and so plodding and had such a virtuous and solid exterior that both Andre and little Jean found him delightfully convenient. They had only to send innocent Alexander to do a piece of particulary dirty work, and it was done. Later, the victims howled. But they howled not at Alexander, but at Andre and Jean, rightly seeing the fine Italian hands behind his big fleshy ones. In fact, some of the victims declared that Alexander, too, was a victim of the pirate house of Bouchard and Sons. All this pleased Jean and Andre excessively. They never worried about Alexander’s suspecting. He was too stupid. He was sly and suspicious, and believed himself to be quite knowing. However, like his kind, he was always taken in by a pleasant and pseudo-frank face and manner. Those who agreed with him, and attended church regularly, were patterns of rectitude and intelligence, he was convinced. Because of this, St Mary’s Episcopal Church had more liars, thieves, blackguards, mountebanks and malefactors, who used him, than any other church in the State.

  Certain more superficial people called him a rank hypocrite, a psalm-singer who sang his pious ditties to deceive the simple-minded. But this was not true. Alexander devoutly believed every word contained in the two Testaments. When he prayed, he prayed with honest fervor. When he meditated in his pew, his eyes would moisten with tears. At least three times a day he spoke of the “saving blood of the Lamb,” and the “grace that saveth,” and the careful distinctions to be made by the Lamb between the goats and the sheep on a certain portentous Day in the future. His phraseology was more suited to Methodist revivals than to the well-bred and refined atmosphere of St. Mary’s. In fact, the Reverend Edward Moseley was frequently distressed and embarrassed over his illustrious parishioner’s sonorous phrases, and was dimly worried as to where Alexander could have picked them up. “Salvation Army extravagance,” he thought euphemiously. Mr. Moseley was a gentleman, and an Englishman, and he did not like Alexander. Once, at Communion, he could hardly suppress a desire to dash a glass of wine in that big solemn pious face. He was used to hypocrites and to malefactors in his churches. He had to acknowledge that here was no deliberate hypocrite or malefactor. However, he had seen some number of Alexander’s kind. They seemed more repulsive to him than an out-and-out scoundrel frankly using religion as an easy way to accomplish skulduggery.

  One or two of the Bouchards had guessed, with Mr. Moseley, that Alexander was a coward and a fool. Naturally superstitious, subconsciously recognizing the flabbiness of his own soul, he had turned desperately to religion, which offered him revenges he dared not take on those he hated, escape from a death that filled him with terror, and which substituted the cheap mumbo-jumbo of piety for a social conscience, that would cost him money. Mr. Moseley, who had a hidden affection for the Roman Catholic Church, always felt more wistfully drawn to that Church whenever he saw Alexander Bouchard. He believed, quite rightly, that the Roman Church was not particularly infested by Alexander’s kind, the priests usually being allowed to give way to their lusty brand of humor, and
the very tenets of the Church being more earthy, more comfortable, and more human. Alexander, by the way, was a devout hater of “Romanism,” and positively declared that part of the “trouble” with politics and international affairs and general godliness was the result of the Roman Catholic Church’s “machinations.”

  He had married rather late. His wife was the only daughter of the president of The Galby Lumber Company. Her hobbies were church work and pottery painting. She sold the pottery at church bazaars, giving all of 33⅓ per cent of the profits to the Missions. A drab, tight-lipped, mean, smiling little woman, with a whining voice, she had long ago been assigned to limbo by the Bouchards. She was childless.

  However, the Bouchards did not forget that Alexander was vice-president of The Sessions Steel Company, and that some day he would be president. Moreover, in spite of his wife’s meanness and his own piety, he gave excellent dinners, though the conversation subsequent to the dinners was so boring that the Bouchards usually managed to escape within a short time.

  Alexander believed he owed a “duty” to his family. He disapproved of them quite openly, but still, he owed them a duty. Tonight he had invited those who aroused his disapproval the least: Armand, Mrs. Armand and young Antoine and little Annette, Henri and his sister, Edith, and Jean and his wife, Alexander’s sister. Jean was his favorite; in fact, he had quite a warm affection for him. Jean’s frank and winning manner, his open smiles, his apparent respect for proprieties and conventions, and his fairly regular church attendance, all had convinced Alexander that here at least was a soul not entirely unregenerate. Consequently, he confided things to Jean which he never confided to anyone else. The poor stupid man could not see into the future, of course. He could not foresee the day when Jean would oust him from his position, and would consign him to the outer darkness of executive impotence.

  Edith did not like any of those at this dinner, and when Henri had accepted the invitation, she had protested when they were alone. “I like to see first one side and then the other woo me,” he had replied, laughing. “Aren’t you amused, too?” But Edith, who knew nothing of Henri’s thoughts, was puzzled and annoyed. She had already noticed that there was some competition for Henri among the Bouchards, and had also noticed that there were two factions. But the significance had escaped her. Moreover, she infinitely preferred Christopher’s faction. She admired Francis, liked Emile, was amused by Hugo, and was not deceived by any of them. She liked Agnes, Emile’s wife, immensely. Once she told her brother that there was an unhealthy and scurvy atmosphere about Armand’s faction, a mean, weasel-like, suspicious air, though she acknowledged that poor Armand was not responsible for it.

  Some time ago Jean had lightly mentioned the fact that it would be to Henri’s advantage, “provided, of course, that you are interested in becoming an active member of the Bouchard rigmarole,” to marry little Annette, possibly within two or three years. Ahtoine, said Jean, would be nothing more than just a flaccid “flaming youth” in his maturity. Armand had no real heir. Moreover, he liked Henri, and the girl was a nice little creature, who would give Henri no trouble and would not interfere with him.

  “No, thanks,” Henri had replied wryly. “I’m not in the market for glued-together bric-a-brac.”

  His open interest in Celeste was naturally causing Armand’s faction an enormous amount of uneasiness. Jean had already discussed with Nicholas, himself, the matter of marrying-off Edith to Nicholas, that confirmed bachelor. Nicholas had been terribly alarmed, at first, but Jean’s prodding had made him reluctantly promise to “think it over.” As a result, he furtively stared at Edith whenever she was about, but when she approached him, he literally fled. But he was really “thinking it over,” and found, after a time, that Edith’s presence vaguely excited him.

  Edith was pale and more silent than usual, tonight. Nicholas approved of the absence of cosmetics. Moreover, when she glanced at him idly with her dark eyes, so filled with light tonight, a thrill ran down his well-padded spine.

  Education had so far civilized the Bouchards that they could listen to Alexander’s sonorous phrases without displaying too much ridicule or impatience or boredom. Besides, it was an excellent dinner. Most of the Bouchards had French chefs, though few of them liked French cooking. However, as Emile said, they had a certain “tradition” to keep up, or at least their wives had. But Alexander, who did not like anything French, and who listened only to his British blood, went in for huge ribs of beef, joints of succulent mutton, rich puddings stuffed with fruit and oozing with suet, port wines and creamy coffee and tea, soups that were brown and robust, and aged cheeses that filled a room with delicious aromas. The Bouchards laughed at these beefy dinners, but they rarely refused an invitation. Their slight Latin strain was inundated and smothered under a menu that would have been approved by King Arthur’s knights.

  Their restless minds, which were only stimulated by their own chefs, fell into a state of pleasant torpor at Alexander’s house. Some claimed it was his conversation, but it was really his food. They could doze, blinking, over a port that could not be surpassed, and so escape much of Alexander’s remarks.

  It was unfortunate for Henri that he did not care for any sort of alcoholic beverage. Nor did Edith drink much. Nor Armand. (Armand, however, believing that port “made blood,” insisted upon Annette drinking a small glass.) However, the others drank. Bachelor Nicholas, sipping his third glass, found Edith more and more alluring. The thought of marrying her gradually lost considerable of its pain. Edith was not amused at his clumsy attempts to be seductive, but she was polite enough not to be too squelching.

  Henri knew it was no accident that he was seated next to little Annette. The girl looked much older tonight. Her long rippling ash-blonde hair, which had never been cut, was rolled softly on her neck in a ball, like pale gold. Her small colorless face, like a delicate triangle of flesh and fragile bones, was tinted faintly. Her beautiful blue eyes were bright, as though with tears or laughter. She wore a dinner gown of thin dark blue velvet, soft and flowing, and a string of rosy pearls hugged her white child’s-throat. Everything about her was so frail, so dainty, so small, that she resembled nothing so much as a tinted Dresden figurine. A figurine which had been broken, but had been cunningly “glued together,” thought Henri. Nevertheless, he was touched by the girl’s sweetness and beauty; her voice was clear yet firm, like crystal tapped with a fingernail. The thought of marriage with her, however, was both repulsive and grotesque. Her place was on a shelf in a glass closet, he thought, glancing at the tiny transparent hands. Her father had given her a diamond bracelet for a Christmas present, and it slipped heavily up and down a wrist that looked as though it would snap between a man’s finger and thumb. Tubercular, thought Henri, with some pity.

  Henri had lived long enough in France to lose the Anglo-Saxon’s aversion for a woman who had some intelligence. He knew the conventional patois of those who understood music. Therefore, he was able to talk to Annette with ease and even interest. He had discovered that she had a light wit and a gaiety that reminded him of Celeste’s. A translucent fever seemed to run in the girl’s veins, making her flesh radiant tonight. Her pretty mouth was scarlet; her eyes glittered with blue fire. Her father, watching, was amazed, and a little frightened. Intuition told him that despair and love were behind this vivacity and this laughter. Annette was fighting for her life with every gay word, every eager gentle smile, every birdlike turn of her Dresden head. A color like a faint flame kept running across her face. Even her pauses seemed to throb, like rosy wine in a thin glass. At these times she looked at Henri in silence, her heart pulsing in her eyes.

  If I married this little piece of porcelain, thought Henri, amused, I would save a lot of time. A short cut. He smiled at Annette, and felt a cool thrill of repulsion zigzag down his spine. He glanced furtively at the poor small boardlike body, almost breastless, and again the thrill turned him cold. God! What an idea! His pity was dried in his aversion. His interest in her intelligent and w
itty remarks blew away. He could not keep from averting his head. But he could still see the tiny transparent little hand resting idly on the stem of the wine glass. He thought of it touching him intimately, and literally turned icy. The poor child wore lily-of-the-valley perfume, and for the rest of his life it was the most repulsive scent in the world to Henri Bouchard.

  It was Alexander’s belief that after a host had dined his guests to stupefaction, they owed him the duty of listening attentively to his conversation. The Bouchards did not agree with him at all, but they were stuffed with food and sweltering with the fumes of remarkable port. It was less trouble to doze with the eyes open than it was to flee. Jean often said that Alexander weighed down his victims with food.so that they could not escape. At any rate, it was only on the occasions of his dinners that anyone ever listened to him.

  Just now he was inveighing against the “lack of discipline and morality and responsibility in the world today.” “Where is our pioneer blood?” he demanded, glaring at them with pompous accusation. “Where is our restraint and sobriety and sense of duty?”

  They regarded him with dull and bulging eyes, and did not reply. Armand, turning a spoon over and over in his hand, kept glancing somberly at Henri. He knew, now, all about the huge loan which Henri had made to Christopher. But why? What did it mean? Armand had eaten very little; he was too gloomy and depressed. Only when he looked at Annette did he feel any comfort. There were moments, though, when he hated his younger cousin, Henri. But with his hatred came the Bouchard scheming and the Barbour determination. Some way must be contrived to prevent a marriage between Henri and Celeste. And some way must be contrived to consummate a marriage between Henri and Annette, not only for the sake of Armand, himself, but also for his little daughter. Sometimes Armand felt confused. His own welfare and peace of mind appeared less important than Annette’s happiness. Finally, her happiness was the only thing that mattered.