Answer as a Man

by Taylor Caldwell

  Behind him was Lionel Nolan, standing beside his wife’s wheelchair, the antic face sober, the yellow eyes secretive and telling nothing. Joan looked as always, like some celestial apparition, pure, immaculate, blue eyes filled with heavenly luster, black waving hair dressed beautifully under a wide brown felt hat. She was wrapped in expensive furs. A single great jewel twinkled on her perfect hand. She looked, indeed, like some angelic visitor clothed in modern style, and an aura of light seemed to surround her. She gazed at her grandfather, and the gaze was the gaze of a compassionate saint, though in fact she felt nothing at all but impatience.

  But she held the hand of the little boy she so dearly loved, Sebastian Garrity. The child’s face had a maturity far beyond his age, and was full of his usual gravity. He had been crying, for he loved Bernard and knew that he was Bernard’s favorite great-grandchild. The lamplight brought out red lights in his brown hair, and the tendrils that crept about his ears and forehead were the color of fire. Occasionally Lionel could not help but glance at his secret son. However, discretion had long been one of his well-practiced traits. He was kind and affectionate to the son he loved more than even Joan could know, but though he often wished to, he did not embrace him, not even when the two were alone. Sebastian leaned against Joan’s arm, and she gazed at him with a passion of love only Lionel had ever seen before.

  Patricia was not there, nor were her other two children. “I just can’t go, Jason,” she had told her husband. “Your grandfather never did like me and I never liked him, either. Death and illness depress me; you know how sensitive I am, and Nicholas, too. I’m sorry this has happened, but your grandfather is a very old man, and it really was stupid of him to do what he did at his age. No, really. Don’t press me. I wouldn’t even go to my own father’s funeral.”

  Jason, as usual, forgave her and watched as Patrick came in with Saul Weitzman, Patrick grim and vengeful, remembering how his friend had come to this state.

  Bernard looked long at his grandson Jason. With the acute perception of the dying, he saw Jason’s broad dark face, so impassive, so contained, the eyes so like his own, slate-gray and brave, the quiet mouth, the strong nose. His integrity, his sureness, even his somewhat unbending nature, were quite apparent even to the most stupid observer.

  A tear slowly gathered at the corner of Bernard’s left eye; his mouth quivered. Love for Jason filled him like a wave. He detested himself for his earlier coldness and withdrawal; he said to a God in whom he hardly believed, “Well, then, forgive me, dammit.” He turned his silent eyes slowly on those about him. He tried to smile at Saul, his eyes flickered with fond amusement when he saw Father Sweeney, but they became chill when they touched Joan, and turned away. He saw Sebastian, and the last smile, full of tenderness, rested on the child.

  Then those searching eyes saw Lionel, and saw instantly what he had not known before—that here was Sebastian’s father. Only Joan had seen this resemblance, the hair, the touch of yellow in the agate eyes, the quickness of expression. But only Bernard knew, now, that Sebastian’s nature was neither his father’s nor his mother’s. He was complete in himself. Another tear formed at the corner of Bernard’s eye. He felt, with the acuteness of those who are dying, that the child was more of himself, and Jason, than of Patricia and Lionel. There was the “blood” of a spiritual kinship, the kinship of the soul.

  “Pray, God, and O Christ, and Blessed Mother,” was Bernard’s dying thought, “that my grandson never knows, never knows.”

  He looked at Saul then, and again tried to smile encouragingly, but his mouth sagged and could only grimace. A sudden anvil fell on his chest; he could not breathe. His big body heaved, shuddered. His last glance was on Jason, and Jason never forgot that look, which seemed to pierce his very heart, to stay there forever.

  Father Sweeney fell to his knees, and so did everyone else, even Saul, and the priest began the litany for the dying. “Go forth, Christian soul …”

  Bernard’s soul flew to the God with whom he had always argued, and Father Sweeney was certain—as he thought later with a sad smile—that the Almighty was probably receiving another rebuke from an innocent. And the priest was sure that God listened attentively and with divine understanding. Whether Bernard returned the courtesy was a moot point.

  After all, hadn’t our Lord himself asked his Father why he had forsaken his Son?

  Saul whispered to himself, “Eli … Eli … Adonai. The Lord gives. The Lord takes away. Blessed be his name.”

  That night, as he lay alone, Jason thought: The cornerstone has gone from my life.

  And he was filled not only with sorrow but also with rage. He hated the thought that his brother would co-celebrate the requiem Mass with Father Sweeney, John Garrity, who, to the last, had stared, even on his knees, with cold reproach at his grandfather.

  16

  Today was the first day of May, a day which Bernard would have welcomed as a “grand morning, and that it is.” Overnight the mountains had become almost summerlike, with a sky like a glowing aquamarine against which every tree was distinct. The distant Ipswich House was so vivid that one could almost count every pale brick and every chimney. It was half-past seven, and Jason had slept late; he was usually up at six and would leave the house no later than half-past. He looked through his bedroom window at the narrow garden; roses of every color were already in thick bud, and all the trees sparkled with life as green leaves danced in a soft breeze. A dogwood tree offered her bouquets of white flowers like a bride, and three redbud trees glowed bright pink with masses of blossom. Peonies, like small cabbages, bobbed heavy pink and white heads as in greeting.

  Jason, somber though he was, felt a reluctant lift of heart, in spite of his sorrow for his grandfather and his growing hatred and desire for vengeance. He went into Patricia’s room; she always ate breakfast alone, and in bed, and considered herself a partial invalid who needed quiet and long hours of sleep. But the truth was that she wished to avoid Jason as much as possible and did not want him to see the enormous amount of food she ate. As he usually came into her room much earlier, she always pretended to be asleep, even if she had been awake for some time. She was not expecting him this late and had just finished devouring a honeyed grapefruit, a large dish of bacon, two eggs, a mound of hot toast and butter, a glass of milk, and several cups of tea thick with yellow cream and several spoonfuls of sugar, and half a pot of strawberry jam and half a pastry. She still felt hungry. At ten o’clock she would eat again, and at half-past one would have a huge lunch; then would come afternoon tea and a gargantuan dinner. Before she would go to bed she would have one or two thick sandwiches, cake, and at least two glasses of milk. She thought no one noticed her prodigious consumption of food, but all the servants did, though Jason did not know. She was always complaining of having no appetite.

  Despite all this, she was so thin that her collarbones were conspicuous, her arms and legs scrawny to emaciation, her body like a preadolescent girl’s. Her long face was very pale, and the attenuated bones were sharply prominent, especially her nose. She lay peacefully back on her big white pillows lavishly edged with lace, and contemplated the last half of the pastry with contentment. But her eyes were not surfeited; they were avid. Her scanty fine brown hair was braided in two meager plaits; she wore a white nightgown of satin and cascades of fine lace and pink ribbons, and her slight breast hardly raised the shining fabric.

  She could not get her way with the rest of the ponderous heavy furniture in the house, which she considered abominable and tasteless, but she had prevailed in her bedroom and dressing room, which were exquisitely furnished in the Louis XV style, all pale rose and blue and yellow, with an Aubusson rug in the same colors on the polished floor. The soft wind blew white lace curtains back into the bedroom, and the blue draperies gleamed against the wall where they had been drawn. The wallpaper was a pale yellow, the color of daffodils, with a ceiling border of blue-green ivy. The expensive lamps were genuine cut crystal with white silk shades bordere
d in gold.

  Even in bed she was trim; there were no wrinkles in her nightgown or pale rose quilted bed jacket. Nor was her braided hair untidy. The tiny pink ribbon bows at the ends of her braids looked freshly tied and neat.

  Her eyes widened with displeasure when she saw Jason. A slight flush appeared on her cheeks, and she hastily threw her napkin over the ravished breakfast tray. “I thought you’d left by now,” she said. “It’s late.”

  Like a lover fearful of a rebuke, he came to her canopied bed, with its blue silk curtains edged with gold braid, and bent and kissed her cheek. She shut her eyes with distaste for a moment and then said petulantly, “I was awake half the night.” She averted her face from him and sighed. “I really must see Dr. Conners. Crises des nerves.” One of her novels of True Love and virginal heroines and fascinating but ruthless men was open on her bedside table.

  Jason looked at her with the devotion Bernard had thought grotesque and degrading to Jason. But it was not the real Patricia whom Jason saw; it was his mind’s image. He quite believed his wife had to “force” herself to “eat anything,” as she said, and he was always in terror that her “delicacy” would cause her imminent death. Had she been an early Victorian she would have had “the vapors.” Jason was certain that if she fell she would break like fine glass. Bernard was not the only one who thought Jason’s delusion incredible, though he shared his delusion with Patrick Mulligan himself. All others knew exactly what Patricia was, especially Nicole. The servants jeered at her in the kitchen, and guffawed among themselves, but they feared her tongue, which could be endlessly shrill with recriminations. Jason and Patrick could not understand why the servants were always leaving, sullenly or in tears, in spite of high wages.

  “Yes, lovey,” said the infatuated young husband, “go to Dr. Conners. Are you taking your iron pills regularly?” He stood near her, humbly adoring and anxious. He saw fragile beauty where none existed; he saw refinement which was not there, and a superb intelligence Patricia had never possessed. He had trembled to approach her on their wedding night; he felt he was befouling a pure young nun whose thoughts were always ethereal. Patricia, with her shrewdness, had guessed this at once and so later had used this fantasy to escape her conjugal duty. When Jason touched her, she endured only because it was desperately necessary to deceive him. Her marriage to him had been a cruel charade.

  She had gone alone after her anguished last meeting with Lionel, to the Inn-Tavern one afternoon, where she had found Jason supervising some servants in a corridor upstairs. She had urgently whispered to him that she must see him alone, and at once. Literally trembling, he had taken her to the end of the corridor and had waited for her to speak.

  He saw that she was very white, and that her eyelids were red and her manner distraught. He did not know that this was but two days since her “renunciation” of Lionel, and he was never to know. He only saw that she was in unusual disarray of both body and emotions. He wanted, in dismay, to take her in his arms and comfort her. He wanted to cry out to reassure her. But he could only stand in silence, ready to die for her if it could diminish her air of fright and distraction.

  Her shrewdness prevented her from sobbing out at once some wretched tale of fabrication. She was afraid of scaring him, and she needed him. So she tried to control herself, forced herself to smile, though the smile was ghastly. She took his arm and drew him nearer to her, and now his trembling was visible, for he both worshiped and desired her.

  “You know Dada wants me to marry you, Jason,” she said, fighting for a beguiling tone of voice.

  His gray eyes were startled and imploring. “Yes, Miss Patricia, I know. He’s mentioned this a few times.” He could barely speak. “I … I couldn’t dare to hope, though. I don’t even dare now.” If Patricia had not been in such a terrified state, even she might have had compassion on him.

  She clutched his arm tighter. “I … I’m awfully shy, Jason. I … I told Dada … you know, the calling of the banns for several weeks in church, and everybody listening and staring … I just couldn’t bear it. I’m … awfully shy. I shrink from people. I … yes, I’ve always wanted to marry you—I knew what you felt for me. But I’m so afraid of people. Even you …”

  He could not believe it. His dark handsome face turned very white. “Miss Patricia!” he said.

  “Weeks of banns,” she repeated, hardly hearing him. “Weeks. And before that, an engagement period of not less than three months. Dada would say it was improper for fewer. Perhaps he would insist on six months. And then, the wedding. He wouldn’t have it private … you know. It would be a spectacle.” She thought of Lionel, whom she had dreamed would be her groom, she in a Paris bridal gown with a cathedral train and a misty veil and orange blossoms, and he adoringly beside her, kneeling before the high altar, and the bishop celebrating the nuptial Mass himself, and the choir solemnly rejoicing, and the cathedral—it would be in Philadelphia, of course—full of sunshine and flowers. The radiant vision shattered and tears filled her eyes, her color faded. She wanted to die for an instant, in her grief and despair. She shut her eyes and gulped.

  “Miss Patricia,” said the incredulous Jason, who could not credit this miracle. He put his hand over the hand on his sleeve; it convulsed under his fingers, but she held on.

  “So,” she whispered, like one renouncing life and welcoming death, “let’s run away … to another town … and be married by a justice of the peace. Tomorrow. Jason, please. Please?”

  “But your father. It would be wrong to deceive him, with all his plans. He would be very angry, you know, at both of us, running off like that, as if … as if …” He could not say the insulting words. “I wouldn’t blame him if he were angry at us. It isn’t fair to him. All his plans, his only daughter. Like a laborer and a shopgirl who had to …” He swallowed again. What did such a lovely innocent young girl know of hasty, forced weddings?

  Jason’s eyes were pleading. He still could not believe this was happening.

  She clutched him tighter. “For my sake, Jason. Please. You don’t know how I feel about such vulgar displays. I love Dada, but he hasn’t any taste, or sensibilities. I … I would just die, Jason. A justice of the peace. And then we can be remarried before a priest—Father Sweeney—quietly, privately. It can be arranged. If Dada gets angry, it won’t last. He’ll be so delighted. Believe me, he’ll be so delighted! He’ll scold at first, and then be reconciled. We’ll explain it to him. Oh, Jason, for God’s sake, please!”

  Even Jason, in his befuddled state, saw her terror. He did not understand it. But he believed in her shyness, her aversion to crowds. What a delicate girl she was, and how poignant.

  Overcome, wanting to protect and hold her and comfort her, he whispered, “How can we arrange it?”

  “We can go on the train in the morning, tomorrow morning, and then back on the afternoon train—five o’clock. Jason? Oh, God, Jason, say you will!”

  The white tendons in her throat stood out under her skin. She thought of knives and blood and doctors and death, and of pain and shame and degradation. She became frantic. Now she clutched both of Jason’s arms, and he saw her wide eyes, the distended irises, the gasping mouth, the desperate and frantic fear. Had he been less infatuated, he would have drawn back and wondered at such frenzied vehemence.

  “Yes,” he said finally.

  She uttered a deep sigh of relief and leaned against him. Oh, Lionel, she whispered to herself. Oh, my Lionel, my darling. Jason’s strong arms were about her. He hesitated, then bent his head and timidly kissed her ice-cold cheek. He tasted her tears. “Thank you, Lord!” he murmured. He was like a grateful child whose father had given him a gift after long suffering.

  He had no doubts, no hesitations. He was blessed.

  And so it happened. Even when the hastily bought wedding ring was on Patricia’s finger, in the dark study of an indifferent justice of the peace, Jason could not believe that Patricia was his bride. He was in a daze all the way back to Belleville on the gritt
y train. He tried to hold Patricia’s hand, but she pulled it away. Shy little girl, thought Jason with compassion.

  Patrick, after his first rantings, was elated. He kissed Jason on both cheeks, and tears brightened his bright blue eyes. “What a hasty rascal you are, Jase! Stealing my little colleen right from under my nose! What a scandal!” He shook his big head. “And what’ll people say about all this? Running off. Well, now, what’s to do? We’ll see Father Sweeney. In the meantime, it’s no valid marriage, I’m thinking, justice of the peace! Off with you, Jason, back to your grandfather. Until you’re properly married to my child, in a month or two. Only right.”

  But Patricia, counting the weeks of her pregnancy, wildly refused to let her bridegroom leave her. Again she was frantic. Patrick, who could deny her nothing, finally consented. Patricia and Jason spent the night in the best guest room of Patrick’s house. Bernard, at home and unaware of the marriage, said to himself. “Good. The boy’s out for once. Let him enjoy himself.”

  Patricia thought she had suffered before, but this night was terrible to her. Jason had had little experience with women; when the need had previously arisen, he had sheepishly gone to Mrs. Lindon’s house and had been ably serviced by one of her young “nieces.” He had no way of knowing that Patricia was no virgin on her wedding night. He only knew that she cried in his arms, shaking sobs of despair and sorrow. He thought it quite natural, even when, at last, she repulsed him. But his love and desire and tenderness were finally too much for her, and she knew this had to be, for her own sake, and Lionel’s. But as she submitted, she thought death might have been preferable to this, after all.