She hardly heard him. “But why should Wilhelm’s notes sound as if he almost hated me, Charles, and did not trust me?” Charles was silent for so long that she lifted her head questioningly. Then when she saw his face she cried: “Charles! Charles! What is it?”
“Hush.” He put his arm about her shoulders. “Phyllis, there’s something I’ve got to do, the day after tomorrow. I might as well tell you. I’m throwing Joe out of the company. I don’t want you to be here when it happens. My God, Phyllis!” he exclaimed. “Try to understand that I have my reasons for not wanting you here, then!”
She clasped her hands together and looked at him, appalled. “Jochen? You’re ‘throwing him out,’ Charles? Oh, I know, he’s been dreadful and sly and scheming. But, does he deserve this? He’s your brother. He’s Wilhelm’s brother.”
“He made Willie suffer for months. In a way, he killed him. Yes, he killed him.” Charles stood up again, and the rage he was battling made his face swell.
“What are you saying, Charles?” Phyllis could not speak above a whisper. “No doubt the lies he told Wilhelm were bad enough, but how did he make Wilhelm suffer? And you say ‘kill’—” Horror sharpened her whisper to shrillness. “Jochen always told lies, and Wilhelm knew he did, and it wasn’t very hard to convince him, that night. But Charles, you said ‘kill’—You said ‘suffer.’ Why?”
He did not answer her, and she got to her feet, quickly. She caught his arms in her hands, and shook him. “Charles, you must answer me. There’s something terrible, here. I knew that Wilhelm was upset, all those months before, but I thought it was just about the company, and Jochen’s lies. It was something else, wasn’t it? It was, wasn’t it, Charles? You must answer me.”
He looked away from her. But she still clutched him. “And it’s because of that ‘something else’ that you want me to go away, while you force Jochen out? Charles?”
The breeze was blowing out one of the long draperies, and Charles watched it. He felt Phyllis’ hands leave his arms. He could not look at her. Then he heard her say, feebly: “Oh, my God! My God! So, that’s why poor Wilhelm suffered so, and why Jochen has to go, and why you look so, Charles.”
He told himself that he could not turn and face her, but he did. He had thought that if she ever knew she would collapse. But she was standing straight and tall before him, and she was stern.
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Joe lied, to Willie,” Charles said. “He made something—of nothing. Or he made a lot out of what was very little. Phyllis, I’ve got this far, you’ve made me, and I might as well tell you the rest. He not only told Willie those things, but he told other people, and it’s been repeated over and over, in Andersburg. Brinkwell and his wife helped. It’s everywhere. They’ve dirtied you, Phyllis. They’ve tried to ruin me, because they wanted the company. But the worst of all was making Willie believe the lies, and torturing him. I think I could overlook almost anything else but that.”
“Yes,” she said.
“And so, while I kick him out—and don’t think there won’t be an uproar—you’ve got to be out of it, Phyllis. It’ll make it easier for me, knowing that you aren’t here when it happens. For they’ll try to strike at me through you.”
“Through me?” she repeated.
She looked at him intently when he did not answer her. “You don’t want me to be hurt, do you, Charles?”
“That’s right, Phyllis.”
She said, quietly: “I think I can see it all, now. I can fill in what you haven’t told me. Charles, they can’t hurt you?”
“No. Not more than they’ve already done.”
“Charles, I can’t let you face everything alone.”
“You must,” he said. “This is something you’ve got to do for me.”
The many weeks of confusion and grief and shock which had stood between them had been cleared away, fully, and they could see each other without that cloud. Phyllis’ eyes widened, became brighter. She held out her hand to Charles, and he took it. Then, very simply, she moved towards him and put her head on his shoulder. His arms lifted, and he held her, and they were very still together. Phyllis did not cry or stir, and it was only after some time that Charles turned his head and kissed her hair. “Dear Phyllis,” he said. It was so natural, standing like this, and holding her, and when she lifted her head he could kiss her on the mouth.
They sat down together on the settee, and Phyllis’ head was again on Charles’ shoulder, and he thought that perhaps there was something in precognition, after all. He had experienced so many emotions today, so many storms and rages, that this moment seemed the calmest and gentlest of resting places, and full of fulfillment. His headache was gone. There was tomorrow, and there was this place, and this comfort, and tomorrow could wait.
Mrs. Holt, who had been unashamedly lurking beyond the arch of the doorway, and who had avidly listened to everything, came in, beaming. She sat down opposite Charles and Phyllis, and said: “No, don’t move. Well, Charlie, I’m glad you told her. Yes, I heard it all. Why not? Eavesdropping saves so many explanations, so many misunderstandings.” She sighed, gustily, then laughed as she saw Phyllis color. “Don’t be an idiot, Phyllis. It’s very funny, in a way, Jochen Wittmann telling everyone the truth, with exaggerations, of course, and yet having it proved a lie.”
“It was proved a lie, to Willie,” said Charles, when he felt Phyllis stiffen. “He didn’t believe it, at the last. So long as he lived, and if he had lived forever, it would have been a lie. Neither Phyllis nor I would ever have done anything to hurt him.”
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Holt, sturdily. “Now, Phyllis, don’t let yourself start to agonize, and wonder. Your husband trusted you, and he trusted poor Charlie, here. And now we can settle down and be sensible. While Charlie does what he has to do, you’ve got to be away. Neither of you can do anything rash; I can’t imagine Charlie doing anything rash, no matter how I try, and you aren’t children. You’ll travel around, Phyllis, and then in about a year or so, we can talk about things.”
“You are such a friend, Minnie,” said Phyllis, and she smiled and her eyes were wet.
“A friend, indeed,” added Charles. Then he said: “But there are others, and when I’ve taken care of Joe, I’ll settle with those who were willing to believe anything of me, without proof.”
“Now, Charles,” said Mrs. Holt, reprovingly. “That’s so silly. Your friends believe in you, because we love you. But there are a lot of people about whom I can hear the most frightful stories and relish them. Yes, I really can. It doesn’t necessarily mean I don’t like those people, or would like to see any harm come to them because of the stories. But good juicy gossip makes life so interesting.”
She laughed at Charles and Phyllis. “Why, how silly you two are! I know dozens of people right here, in this town, who’ve heard all the nasty stories about you, Charlie, and never believed them for a moment, but had a good time pretending they did. As for the others, you’ll just have to ignore them. They were never your friends, even if some belonged to your very own church, and had you to dinner. That’s life, Charlie. And now I think the automobile is here, and we’ll take Phyllis home, and we’ll drive you down to your house, and then I’ll bring my poor, yawning Braydon back to his bed.”
After they had left Phyllis at her lonely home, where only the hall light shone through the fanlight, Charles drove on with Mrs. Holt. She chattered gayly, while Charles absentmindedly dodged the big hatpins in her bigger hat; she did not expect him to listen, and he did not. Her talk just filled and dissipated a silence. He could only see Phyllis waving to him and Mrs. Holt from the steps of her house, with a vague star-sheen on her face, and the light from the hall gilding her hair.
The street was warm and dark, the trees barely moving, and then only with a drowsy whisper. Charles said good night to Mrs. Holt, and shook her hand, and she patted his shoulder. He went up the steps of the verandah, and he heard the creaking of the hammock. “Jimmy,” said Charle
s. “Why aren’t you in bed? It’s after twelve.”
The boy untangled his long legs from the hammock and stood up. “I wasn’t sleepy,” he answered. “Besides, you looked so terrible when you went away in Mrs. Holt’s automobile that I thought I’d wait up and find out if there was anything wrong.”
Charles opened the screen door, and Jimmy followed him into the house. The door slapped behind them in the midnight quiet. Jimmy turned up the wall gaslight. “Now, look here,” said Charles, “you’ve got to stop this idotic pampering of me, Jimmy, and acting as if I were a child and you a grandfather. You’ve got to remember that I lived a considerable time before you were born, and that someway, somehow, I’ll manage to go on living in my own feeble-minded way, long after you’re married and have a dozen children of your own.”
But Jimmy was thoughtfully scrutinizing him, like a physician coming to his own conclusions and not listening to the babblings of a half-witted patient. Then he grinned. “You look better, Dad,” he said, with relief.
“I feel better,” replied Charles, impatiently. Then he began to smile. “Now run along, son, and get to bed.” He pushed Jimmy roughly and affectionately towards the stairway. But Jimmy resisted. “Some hot milk?” he suggested. “Make you sleep.”
“No, not hot milk. No anything. If I want some I’ll heat it myself. I wouldn’t trust you not to put something in it so that I’d never wake up again.”
“Well, anyway, what I gave you did make you sleep for almost five hours.”
“And gave me a nightmare, too.” What had that nightmare been? Charles could not remember very clearly. No matter. He briskly turned out the gaslight, and the parlor became dark, lit only by the street-lamp outside. It was odd that he wasn’t tired any longer, and that his mind was refreshed, as if he had just awakened from a long sleep. He and Jimmy went up the stairs, where another light burned very low near the landing. “And I’m going to read,” Charles informed his son. “None of this confounded new habit of yours, shuffling past my door at all hours, and then listening near the key-hole to see if I’m uttering my last death-rattle or something.”
Jimmy laughed; the laugh was almost a hysterical giggle. Why, I’ve been worrying the poor kid to death for months, thought Charles, remorseful. It’s bad enough to go through hell yourself without dragging someone else with you, too. “I’m feeling fine,” he said. Again, the inability of a man to express his love for his son came to him.
“Good night, Jimmy,” he said, firmly. He heard Jimmy whistling as he went into his own room. It had been a long time since he had heard that low and happy sound, Charles thought. I’ve put him through hell, he said to himself, again.
He undressed, went to bed with a book, lit the gaslight. He rubbed his glasses. Tomorrow. There was always tomorrow, and he had once more returned to his old philosophy that it was bad business to fore-live events, or to relive past wretchedness. All that was coming would come, without his help or his hindrance.
It was perhaps unfortunate that this book was by Flaubert, for whom Charles, in his relentless reading, had developed a profound taste. For the first sentence he read was: “The trouble with men is not that they are scoundrels but that they are fools.” He put down the book, and frowned.
He turned out the light, and scowled in the darkness. He would go to sleep. He had had enough for one day.
He drowsed uneasily, for the shocks of the past hours invaded his restless sleep like vague forms of menace. Voices, faces, gestures, dim movements, pushed against his eyelids. He turned from side to side, muttering. The early morning wind rose and the trees answered it. The lamplight outside flickered on the drawn shades.
Charles woke with a start, and as he did so he was completely overwhelmed by a horrible foreboding. It was like being struck by an iron fist in the pit of the stomach. This was even worse than the nightmare he had had after Jimmy had put him to sleep. It was so complete, so inexorable, and he had no fortitude with which to meet it.
He heard the rumbling of the first milk-wagon down the street, though it was still hardly dawn. He heard the clock below strike five. Now a buggy rattled a long way off, and a homeless dog barked hopelessly. The trees spoke louder. A first bird chirped sleepily, and then another called.
Charles lay in his bed, rigid and very still and the foreboding crushed him down.
It was only a coincidence, of course, that at that very moment the Archduke Francis Ferdinand, heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary, and his wife, the Duchess of Hohenberg, were being murdered in Sarajevo. It was high noon, there, and the sun was shining hotly, this very hour in Slavic Bosnia.
CHAPTER XLII
Charles started to get up at his usual hour to go to church, this Sunday morning, June 28, 1914, and then he knew that it was impossible. He could not begin to live a normal life, or one approaching this, until things were settled. He could not bear the thought of seeing Jochen in the church today. Lately, they had nodded surlily to each other when there was an encounter in the halls, though they continued to communicate mostly by notes and messages through clerks.
Just my nerves, he told himself, as he shaved. Then, still in his nightshirt, he knocked at Jimmy’s door. Jimmy was already dressing. “Jimmy,” said Charles, “I oughtn’t to have slept yesterday. I didn’t sleep well last night. Besides, there’ll be things to do at the Park. So I’m not going to church today. And as your tutor will be here later, even though it’s Sunday, you need not go either, if you don’t want to.”
Jimmy gave him a long sharp look. “Now, Dr. Wittmann,” said Charles, gravely, “I assure you that I have no symptoms at all. Breakfast in half an hour, eh? We’ll sit and talk over our coffee.” He added: “I need the rest. We’ve been working Saturdays the last few months, as you know, with all the orders and things.”
He went back to his room. But he was so tired. He looked at his clothing, then lay down on his rumpled bed. One of the pillows was on the floor. He had no energy with which to retrieve it. He lay on his back, his arms folded under his head. The door opened and Jimmy came in. Charles made an irritable movement, attempted to sit up, then lay down. Jimmy sat near him. “Well, Dad,” said the boy. “Suppose you tell me all about it, or as much as you can. I’m not a child, you know.”
Charles was silent. He stared at the window, which was an oblong of gold. The trees stood in brilliance, outside. It was a warm and lovely Sabbath day, full of softness and peace. Children were already playing and laughing on the sidewalks, and their mothers were scolding them for breaking the Sabbath quiet. The breeze sang.
Charles did not look at his son. “You’re right, Jim,” he said. “You’ll hear tomorrow, anyway. Jim, I’m throwing your Uncle Joe out of the company, tomorrow. He’s finished.”
Jimmy did not comment. Charles turned his head. “Disturbed, son?”
“No,” said Jimmy, thoughtfully. “Except about what all this is doing to you. I know it must’ve taken a long time for you to make up your mind to do all this. You must have your reasons, and they must be good.”
Charles said: “About Gerry, Jim. Will it make any difference?”
Jimmy shook his head, and smiled. “No, Dad. Not a bit of difference. Gerry and I understand more than you think.” He hesitated. “For instance, I’ve known, for a long time, what Uncle Joe’s been saying about you all over Andersburg.”
“What!” exclaimed Charles. He sat up.
“Gerry loves her parents,” said Jim, as if Charles had not spoken. “But she loves me, too, and she loves you a lot, also; Dad. The only thing that was wrong was you, and how you had it all bottled up in yourself, and we were worried about you. We knew Uncle Joe had some reason for all these stories, and we came to a pretty good conclusion. It’s the Connington, isn’t it?”
Charles was dumfounded. He thought, confusedly: What idiots parents are. They hide things from their children, under the delusion they are protecting them, or something, and the children know all the time and suffer over it.
“The
Connington,” Charles muttered, helplessly.
Jimmy nodded. “Yes. And Mr. Brinkwell. He’s always either over at Uncle Joe’s or Uncle Joe and Aunt Isabel are over at Brinkwell’s. And there’s that Kenneth. Well. Dad, it’s all tied up with the Connington, someway, and the company, though what the details are we’ve never quite found out.”
Charles was full of shame. His son, hearing those foul stories! Anyone else hearing them, and it would not have mattered. But his son!
Jimmy said, casually: “I know what you’re thinking, Dad. Remember, though, I’m not a little kid. And when people want something they’ll do anything.”
He began to laugh, gently. “We’re in a new age, Dad. The young people know a lot of things you don’t dream we know. At first I was mad about those stories, and then I just began to worry about you hearing them. Gerry said that the people concerned are always the last to know.”
Now Charles was intensely humiliated. “You ought to have told me, son.”
Jimmy shook his head. “No. You know you wouldn’t have wanted me to. I just had to wait until you told me, yourself.”
Charles said: “Would you believe it, Jim, if I told you that I first heard about them only yesterday?” He picked up his pillows, punched them behind his head. “Your Uncle Willie knew about the stories; Joe had told him. You’ll just have to fill in for yourself. But I never knew anything about the tales until Oliver Prescott and George Hadden told me about them—yesterday.”
Jimmy had listened seriously. Then, with abstraction, he pulled out a box of Melachrinos from his back pocket, lit one, and smoked with concentration. Charles wanted to protest, saying: “Smoking? When did this begin?” And then he realized his son was truly not a child any longer, but a man. The smell of the warm Turkish tobacco drifted through the room, undisturbed.
“It is the only thing to do, of course,” said Jimmy, soberly. “The only thing to do, and as soon as possible. But it’ll take a great deal of money, won’t it? You’ll have to buy him out.”
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