Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  Then he was talking about Jochen, and she shrank a little. “I’ve been hearing reports,” he said, and there was nothing in his voice but misery and gloom. “He’s wretched. In our company, he was a big man, a man of consequence, a man who knew his business. What is he now? Assistant to that little black rat Brinkwell! Someone who could be replaced. What does it matter that he gets a large salary, and is Brinkwell’s friend, and visits Brinkwell’s country house near Philadelphia, and knows so many ‘important’ people? What does it matter if Isabel is mentioned daily in the newspapers; and goes to New York with Brinkwell’s wife, and is reported ‘dining’ with famous people, and is accepted socially everywhere? I saw Joe, once or twice, at a distance, and he’s a broken man—”

  You’re sorry for him, even if you hate him, even if you wanted to kill him, as he really killed Wilhelm, thought Phyllis. Something ended for you when you forced him out, my poor dear. You are so afraid of things ending. You like the world to stay unchanged.

  She said, very gently: “Jochen did these things to himself, dear Charles. You can’t control peoples’ lives.”

  “Yes, yes. I suppose you’re right, Phyllis,” he said. He put his glass to his mouth. It was empty, now, and he stared at it, helplessly. Then he added: “It’s this feeling I have, that I can’t control anything, no matter how I try—I always thought one could—Things get away from you—Things happen—You try to think what you should have done, and then you know that nobody can do anything. Phyllis, I can’t stand this war.”

  She felt his huge dread, his active terror. She knew the war had just one face, and that was the face of his son. He talked of the Connington Steel Company; he talked of everything. But always, everything was Jimmy. The moon was overhead, and the leaves of the trees were blazing silver, and the mountains were black against a dark blue sky. It is so peaceful here, thought Phyllis, but it is an illusion. I don’t suppose there was ever really any peace any time in the world, or in men.

  She looked at the moon, and said in herself: Our Father, Who art in Heaven—Man passed in a bloody dream, but God remained. She wanted to tell this to Charles. It might help him. But she could say nothing, and could only think: Deliver us from this evil.

  It was almost midnight before they went back into the house. Charles was quieter now. He held Phyllis to him, and his arms were tired. He said, trying to smile: “I had to talk to you, Phyllis. It hasn’t solved anything. But it was a relief.”

  She put her hand to his haggard face, and kissed him. “My poor darling,” she said. That was all any woman could ever say to any man. He turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand. “It was a relief,” he repeated.

  He found Jimmy waiting for him, and he was glad, though it was very late. He said: “It’ll be next summer, son.” They shook hands solemnly. They went upstairs together, and for the first time in many months Charles fell asleep instantly. Something had happened to him, was his last thought. Something had comforted him. Perhaps things might not be so bad as he had thought.

  CHAPTER XLIX

  Charles and Jim called for young Walter Haas, and the Reverend Mr. Haas, so that they could all go together to the station in Charles’ big red automobile. Both fathers were very jovial with their sons, and warned them of all sorts of interesting temptations to which they were likely to be exposed at Harvard. Jim drove the car, with Walter beside him, and Charles and the minister rode in the rear, amid a vast tangle of baggage and tennis rackets.

  The boys were excited; their fathers laughed and exchanged winks with each other. Charles and the minister did not look directly at each other, however. It was unsafe. Jim was slightly worried under his excitement. He was not completely convinced that Charles could drive the automobile safely home, and he wished that he had insisted that Charles’ handyman do the driving. Charles thought this very funny; he and the minister laughed loudly. The boys were less exuberant. Young Walter hoped that his father would be a comfort to his mother and would give her a little more time now that her son would be away. He resolved that when he was a minister, himself, he would give his first thoughts to his family; the parishioners would come next. Then he reminded himself that this would be wrong, and he became very sober.

  They all got out at the station, and the baggage was untangled and heaped on the hot wooden platform. In five minutes the train would be here. The four stood together, and then no one could speak. Charles thought of his empty house. He looked at the minister enviously. Three little girls at home, and a wife. When a man was young, Charles thought, he congratulated himself if his family was very small, and he had no impediments dragging on his shirt-tails as he struggled towards a hoped-for success. But when he was middle-aged, and had no children at all, or only one or two, and he had a big house and money and security, then he wished that he had at least five children to fill those rooms. Yes, five children around a Christmas tree, five children in the garden, five children and their friends thundering up and down the stairs, five children about the table—and five strong and loving children about one’s death-bed—that was the only real fulfillment, the only real reason for living.

  Charles looked up and found his son watching him anxiously Jim said impulsively: “I’ll be back at Thanksgiving, Dad.” He smiled, and pushed his father’s shoulder. “And one of these days I’ll get married and I’ll give you half a dozen grandchildren, three boys and three girls!” He added, generously: “And you can name them all yourself, too.”

  The minister smiled at his own son. He took off his pincenez and rubbed them vigorously, his broad plump face tired but resolutely happy in the hot September sunlight. A minister—my boy, thought Mr. Haas. A very hard life, but a rewarding one. At least, it would be rewarding if people just thought of their pastor as a man like themselves, and had a little patience with him, and a little consideration, and did not expect him to be the social arbiter of the parish, and a grinning politician, and a schemer, and each family’s personal property alone. Sheep could play hob with the shepherd, and ruin his disposition, and make him a cynic. Young Walter, so sedate, so earnest, so circumspect, so single-hearted, would find it a hard life. But it has its rewards, thought Mr. Haas, determinedly. Yes, indeed. If the boy just had a little more sense of humor—yes, indeed, said Mr. Haas, firmly, to himself.

  They all heard someone coming towards them, and they saw it was young Father Hagerty, smiling eagerly. He was carrying two parcels, and he was shabby in the blazing sunlight. Charles and Mr. Haas shook hands with him, with deep affection, and the boys shook hands with him shyly. “I knew Jimmy was going away, Mr. Wittmann,” said the priest. “You told me in the summer. So I thought I’d come down here to give him my best wishes.”

  He glanced at Jimmy. Charles saw there was considerable resemblance between them. They were both tall and dark and a little too thin, and both were uncertain, and they both had a youthful passion in their eyes. Mr. Haas smiled benignly, and sadly. Such a young feller, this priest. He still believed that sheep could be led, that they could be taught not to butt each other and scramble over each other.

  Father Hagerty gave the parcels to Jimmy. He looked at them thoughtfully, as the boy held them. He cleared his throat, and laughed. “When I went away to my seminary some of my parents’ friends brought me all sorts of sacred literature,” he said. “But the thing I really liked was a box of my mother’s penuche, with walnuts. I remembered that. So, one of those parcels contains a book about St. Francis of Assisi, and the other one contains some of my mother’s candy.”

  “Food for the body, and food for the soul,” said Mr. Haas, heartily.

  Charles thought this very trite, and he wished Mr. Haas had not said something so banal. He was embarrassed for his minister, before those three young men. Then he saw that Mr. Haas was embarrassed, too. Charles felt very compassionate, and nodded solemnly. It must be hell being a minister, thought Charles. He regarded both clergymen with affectionate pity. His son was going to be a doctor.

  The five stood
together, and tried to talk. It was a miserable effort. I hope the damn train’s an hour late, Charles thought. It’s always late. But, of course, it would be on time today, he added to himself, as he heard the humming of the rails. In a minute or two the infernal thing would be roaring in upon them, ringing and steaming and roaring, in a cursed hurry to be off again. Passengers were straggling out of the station. Charles moved closer to his son. The train now could be seen, clamoring from around the bend. Jim whispered to his father hurriedly: “I’m glad you’re going to have dinner tonight with the Holts and Aunt Phyllis, Dad. But will you go right home from here, before you go to the Holts’? I’ve left something there for you.”

  “Eh?” said Charles. “Something for me? Of course I’ll go home first.” The train was shrieking past them now, and the Pullman cars were slowing down. Other passengers were running for the coaches. The five men moved towards the Pullmans. The time had come. These two young men were loading themselves with baggage, and a porter was coming helpfully towards them. They were already going; they were going out of their fathers’ lives. They were rushing into manhood. Charles held himself back from clutching his son’s arm. Mr. Haas was all paternal smiles. There was sweat on his wide forehead. Then he was unashamedly hugging Walter, and Charles found himself helplessly pumping Jim’s hand and trying to see his face through a mist. The young priest watched sympathetically.

  The boys’ faces appeared at a Pullman window. The train hesitated. Go on, go on! thought Charles, desperately. I can’t stand this. The train was moving, the wheels churning. The boys waved; their fathers waved. Then the train was rushing away. Charles and Mr. Haas watched it until it was out of sight. Then Charles said, and could not help himself: “This is bad. But think how bad it would be if they were going off to fight, to kill, to be killed. Thank God, we’ve no war here, and pray God we’ll never have one.”

  Mr. Haas bent his head and moved slowly away. Charles said to the priest: “We’ll take you home, Father Hagerty. It was very kind of you to—to—”

  They went home in silence. Or, at least, it was Charles’ impression that no one spoke. Fear rode in the red and brazen splendor of the automobile with them. It was a relief when he found himself alone, and drawing up slowly before his house. Communicated fear was worse than solitary fear, because all knew what was in your mind, and they suffered with you and for themselves.

  Before Charles went up the stairs, he looked at his big, old, solid house. It had already taken on an abandoned air. There was nothing inside, nothing, only empty rooms. For days and weeks on end, he, Charles, would sit alone at his table. Jim would be back for the holidays, but he would be a visitor. This house would never be a home again until Phyllis was there. The thick warm green of the great trees fell across the windows. The screen door opened on a cool, shuttered interior. Sighing, Charles went up the stairs and into the house.

  Someone stirred in the parlor, and stood up. Charles blinked, the blaze of outdoor sunlight still half blinding him in this dimness. Then he exclaimed: “Gerry! Gerry, my dear!” So, this is what Jim had meant when he had asked his father to go home first.

  The tall young girl came towards him timidly. “Uncle Charlie,” she said, and her voice shook as if she were about to cry. He took her in his arms and kissed her with deep love. It had been a long time since he had last seen her. Why, he had not seen her since last winter! And how the child had grown. She was as tall as Charles, or even a little taller. Her white blouse and white skirt glimmered in the dusk of the parlor. He saw the shining of her large dark eyes, and he saw the tears on her lashes.

  “Jimmy asked me to be here when you came back,” she said, as they sat down. “He didn’t want you to come in here alone.” Her hair was up, in a gleaming mass of black braids around her head, and it gave her slender throat, her young straight shoulders, her gentle young breast, a regal look. Charles thought that nothing could be more gently distinguished than that quiet young face. Why, it was beautiful! A lovely face; a lovely girl. He got up, bent over her, and kissed her again. “Gerry, this is wonderful,” he said.

  “Has Jimmy told you we’ve been seeing each other all the time?” she asked, as Charles sat down again. “You see, we have, Uncle Charlie.”

  “He never told me,” answered Charles, laughing. “But I knew. And I was glad.”

  But the girl was miserable. “There’ll never be anyone for me but Jimmy,” she said. “Never, never. No matter what happens. I’m going away to school, myself, on Monday. Jimmy and I’ll be writing, all the time. And we’ll see each other on vacations, and Jimmy says that somehow we’ll manage to see each other even during school periods. Jimmy can do almost anything,” she added, proudly.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about—things,” said Charles, comfortingly. “Jimmy’s got six years, at least, at school, and then he’ll be an interne, and you’ll be at school, too. You’ll both be growing up. Don’t be so sad, Gerry. There’ll always be a way, when Jim is a man and you are a woman.” He thought of Phyllis, and his voice became stronger. “Yes, there’ll always be a way.”

  I probably sound as foolish as poor Haas sounded at the station, to this child, thought Charles. She thinks I’m an ancient, and how can ancients know anything about anything?

  “Papa and Mama want to announce my engagement to Kenneth Brinkwell after Christmas,” said Geraldine in so low a voice that Charles had to lean forward to hear her.

  “But you’re only a child,” said Charles, largely, thinking only of comforting her. “It’s all nonsense. You’ve only to tell them you’re too young. Why, you’re only seventeen, sweetheart.”

  Geraldine did not lift her head. “I’ll be eighteen, next year. They want me to be married to Kenneth, then. Lots of girls I know are already engaged, and they’re only my age.” Then she was crying, her handkerchief over her face, her shoulders heaving in dreadful sobs.

  Charles, appalled, clutching the arms of his chair, stared at her helplessly, unable to move. He listened to her muffled cries; he watched the bent convulsions of her body. And then the slow but huge fire of his rage began to burn in him, and he clenched his hands. He forced himself to his feet; he put his arm about the girl’s shoulders; he smoothed her hair.

  “Listen to me, Gerry,” he said, with sternness. “You don’t have to marry anyone you don’t want to marry. Your—your father and mother can’t force you. This isn’t the Middle Ages.” He lifted the girl’s head and held it against his chest, tightly. “If you and Jim love each other—though you’re both too young to be thinking of that yet—then you’ll wait for each other. Why, you won’t have to wait! We’ll settle it—all of us together. When Jim’s twenty-one, you can be married, and you can have a little flat near Harvard, and then when he goes to a hospital you can move again with him. I’ve got money, sweetheart. You two can have everything you want.”

  But did this child have the strength and the fortitude to resist Jochen and Isabel—damn them! If she only hated her parents, it would be easy. But she loved them. She was her father’s favorite. He would work on her; he would appeal to her. He would use her love for him. Charles thought he had hated his brother with all the force he had had in him; now he knew that that hatred was nothing to what he felt now.

  “You’re not engaged to young Brinkwell,” said Charles. “You don’t have to be, Gerry. Try to stop crying, darling. Try to listen. You don’t have to be engaged to anyone.”

  She was still sobbing, but more quietly. Her face was hidden against his vest. She lifted her left hand, such a childish, white hand, and showed him what was on it. It was a gold ring, with the tiniest possible diamond, hardly a twinkle, and it was on her third finger.

  Geraldine drew her face away from him; it was blotched and swollen.

  “Jimmy gave me that ring last week,” she said, and she smiled through her tears.

  Why, it was a beautiful ring; it was innocent and touching. It was like these children, themselves. Charles held Geraldine’s hand and looked at t
he ring, and it seemed to him to be the noblest and loveliest of all engagement rings.

  “He saved for over a year for it, Uncle Charlie,” said Geraldine. “Isn’t it lovely? But I have to wear it on a chain, at home, and I hide it under my pillow at night. So, we’re really engaged now. Jimmy put it on my finger, so I’d always remember that.”

  Charles said: “It’s the most magnificent ring I’ve ever seen.” And it was. It meant a whole year of careful saving, of self-denial, of love. “This makes me very happy, my dear. I can’t tell you how happy.”

  She stood up, wiping her eyes. She held her hand stiffly in front of her, and smiled with delight on the ring. Then she covered it with her other hand.

  “It’s going to be awfully hard, Uncle Charlie, opposing Mama and Papa. And perhaps you’ll hear I’m engaged to Kenneth Brinkwell. But I won’t be, really. Nothing will ever make me be.”

  She had to leave at once, she told Charles. She was supposed to be shopping for school. She stood near the door and threw her arms about his neck and gave him a child’s kiss, fervent and confiding, on his mouth.

  Before she ran down the steps, she said breathlessly, not looking at him: “Don’t be too angry with Papa, Uncle Charlie. He’s so miserable. I can’t tell you—”

  And then she was running down the street, a flutter of white skirt, a flutter of a white glove. Charles watched her go. He stood on the verandah for a long time.