They sat down, close together, and the priest sat at a distance, praying for them, praying for the souls of the young men who had died while trying to help their brothers.
No one saw Phyllis, who watched from the hall, crying when she had thought she could never cry again. She saw the priest’s bowed head, as he prayed. She put her hands over her face, and her body bent in grief.
Someone was touching her arm. It was the minister, and he was trying to smile at her. “I think Charles is all right, now,” he was saying.
“But, Mrs. Haas,” whispered Phyllis. “Oh, my God, my God.”
“Yes,” said the minister. “Yes, my God, my God.”
Then she was alone with Charles, and she saw his shattered face. She went to him and knelt down beside him, and he put his hand on her head. “Poor Phyllis,” he muttered. “You’ve been here with me all the time, haven’t you?”
She pressed her cheek against his arm. “Yes, of course, my darling. Besides, I had no home.” She laughed faintly, and forlornly. “I had to leave on August tenth. So I came here. To my home. I’ve been sleeping in your room, Charles, when I could. Our room, dear.”
She put her arms about him. “I won’t ever go away again. Never. And Charles, you must do what I want you to do. I want you to marry me the day after tomorrow.”
He held her to him. He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “Why, yes, of course, my dearest. Of course.”
The pain was coming to him, huge and monstrous, and he let it come. He held Phyllis tightly, and he kept repeating: “Of course, of course.”
CHAPTER LXII
It was Phyllis who arranged the details of her marriage to Charles in Mr. Haas’ study. Only the Holts, the Haddens, Friederich, and Helen were there. Later, they had a quiet dinner at the Holts’ mansion, and then Phyllis and Charles went home. It was understood that Charles, because of his enfeebled condition, must rest for a few days, then the honeymoon, which no longer needed to be postponed, would follow. Phyllis was determined that this honeymoon would not be in the form of a “rest” for Charles. He dare not be idle just now. She arranged that they would travel rapidly from city to city, from resort to resort.
When Charles and Phyllis returned from the Holts’ dinner, they found that Mrs. Meyers had lit up the lights in all the rooms, and there was coffee waiting for them, and dump cake. Mrs. Meyers cried a little when Phyllis kissed her, and cried even more when Charles shook her hands.
Then, Phyllis and Charles, arm in arm, went upstairs together. They passed Jim’s room. The lights were all brilliantly burning in there, and the door was open. Charles stopped on the threshold, and Phyllis stood beside him in silence. Charles looked at everything in the room, and it seemed to him that the room was not empty at all. Jim had left it only a few minutes ago, for a forage in the kitchen. He would return in a moment or two.
“Let’s leave the lights on,” said Phyllis.
Charles turned to her. He said: “You always understand, don’t you, Phyllis?”
They left the brightly lit room, and they left the door ajar, and went into their own room. Charles took Phyllis’ hand and led her in. Here only a light or two had been lit. Charles and Phyllis stood in the center of the room, their hands together, and the light blue of Phyllis’ silk dress was the color of her smiling eyes. Her lips smiled, also, and she did not seem to be watching Charles with passionate anxiety. Even he did not know it. He drew her to him and held her to him tightly, and she could hear his breath in her hair.
She thought that he had brought a wife to this room and to this bed, before, the bed in which he had been born. His wife, Mary, had given him a son from this bed, and a daughter, who had died, in this bed, also, and she, Mary, had died in it. The house was full of ghosts. This door was shut, but beyond it a room was lighted for a boy who would never enter it again. Phyllis was afraid.
She waited for Charles to speak, or not to speak at all. She did not know which she preferred, just at this moment. Was he, too, remembering the ghosts of those he had loved? Was he listening for them? Charles took Phyllis’ face in his hands, and he kissed her gently on the mouth.
“I’ve been waiting all my life for this,” he said. “Now, I won’t be alone any more.”
He had said the one thing she had wanted him to say. Then he added: “I’ll turn off the lights in Jim’s room.”
She let him go. She saw the hall go dark. Then she heard Charles shut the door of Jim’s room, very softly and slowly, as someone might close the room where another slept. Then he came back to her, and she was waiting for him and holding out her arms to him.
Charles protested after the first two weeks of the four-week honeymoon. It was “silly” to go “tearing around after only one or two days in one place.” But Phyllis kept him moving. She no sooner saw the gray bitterness returning to his face, or the sodden grief, than she began to repack her suitcases furiously, and Charles was whirled off. In the confusion, strangeness, and change of renewed travel, he had little time to think. And when the nights came he was so exhausted that he almost immediately fell asleep beside her.
Phyllis had hoped that Charles would talk a great deal about his dead son. But he did not. She became afraid again. He was taking up his life once more, but he would not talk, even to her, about Jim. Sometimes in the night, as he slept, he would cry out, and once or twice he called wildly for his son, and on another occasion or two he had sobbed drily. In the morning, however, he smiled at his wife, and discussed where they should go that day. They had already visited Atlantic City, Philadelphia, and New York. Now, they would go to Washington. “And then anywhere else we can think of,” Phyllis would laugh.
She was giving him comfort, and all her tenderness and devotion. Over and over, he would say: “Without you, Phyllis, there’d have been no use in going on. And when I look back, I can see that there never was any going on, without you, all those years.” She knew he meant this. But he would not let her talk to him about his son. Sometimes she was close to it, and he knew, and he would get up abruptly and suggest a walk or a late supper.
“You are taking a hard road, Phyllis,” Mr. Haas had told her before her marriage. “You must remember that. It might be months before Charles can talk to you; it might even be a year or two. You must be patient, and you must just keep praying, that’s all.”
Charles no longer bought or read newspapers, not even to look at the Stock Market. The newsboys shrilled “extras” on the streets of New York, Philadelphia, Atlantic City, Washington, Baltimore, and all the other cities they visited. But Charles passed the boys as if they did not exist, without a glance at the papers they offered. This, to Phyllis, was very disquieting. She said nothing, and, as the minister had suggested, she prayed.
Then, the four weeks were over, and they were returning home. They stopped in Philadelphia for a night, and the next morning they took a cab to the station. They passed a high school, and the cab had to stop to let the streams of young boys and girls cross the street. Charles looked through the windows, idly, then held himself stiffly as he heard the shouts of the youths and saw their rush. The cab still stood, but Charles let himself fall back against the seat. He had forgotten Phyllis. He stared emptily before him and his face was again a ruin of agony. Phyllis put her hand over his, and her eyes blurred with tears.
Charles said: “I hope that Fred’s been able to manage all right without me.”
The cab moved slowly on, the school doors were open, and the boisterous children fell behind. Their shouts became fainter and fainter. The cab turned a corner and the station was just ahead.
It will be this way for a long time, thought Phyllis. Every time he hears a boy’s voice, or sees a boy Jim’s age, or someone who resembles him, it will be frightful for him. He will remember when Jim was graduated from high school; he will remember him shouting and laughing and running. He will look at these other boys and wonder why his boy, of them all, had to die. Phyllis thought of all the hundreds of thousands, even millions, perha
ps, of boys who would die in this war. But she thought more of their fathers and their mothers, and asked silently, with her own bitterness, why no one ever wrote of the anguish of these parents who could see no “glory” in the death of their lives and their hopes, their pride and all their work. She thought of the countless thousands of painful births which had taken place hardly two decades ago—to end in a bloody and fiery death—for nothing. She thought of the planning of parents, the sacrifices, the tears and prayers—for nothing. The drums and the banners, the reports of victories, the end of the war, itself, would mean nothing at all to men and women who stared hopelessly at empty chairs, who put away books which would never be used again, and closed doors—thousands of doors—as Charles had closed the door of Jim’s room. It was horrible that millions of young eyes would never see the sun again. It was more horrible that millions of older eyes could see the sun, but would refuse to see it. Who had said: “The tragedy of war is not in death of the young men alone; it is in the lives of their fathers”?
Such a rage and hatred came to Phyllis then, such an overpowering sorrow, that her gloved hands clenched and tears ran down her face. She forgot Charles, for he had become only one of those fathers whose sons were being murdered daily in Europe. His tragedy was the tragedy of the whole world, a monstrous and futile tragedy. Even worse, it was a planned tragedy.
She became aware that Charles was unclenching her hands, very gently. He said: “Don’t, Phyllis. It can’t be helped, now. I suppose I’ll just have to force myself to look at other boys, and not feel too much about Jim. Besides, I have you. I must remember that.”
He had spoken of Jim, voluntarily, to her. It was the first turning away from the darkness. No one could help him much; he would have to help himself. But when he would turn again and again from his suffering, she, Phyllis, would be waiting for him.
When they reached home, and were going up the stairs of the house, Charles said “You can’t know, Phyllis, how often I’ve hated to come back here. But when I leave the office, every night, you’ll be here, waiting for me. How did I get along without you before?”
But a few days later, he said to her: “Once, a long time ago, I hoped that when we were married we might have a child or two, Phyllis. I don’t want that, now. Let’s get what comfort and contentment we can out of existence, and let it end there. Once I read that having children is an affirmation of life. I don’t want to affirm anything again. It’s no use.”
CHAPTER LXIII
Friederich could only shake hands with Charles when the latter returned to the offices. Like all deeply emotional people, Friederich was intuitive. He saw that Charles looked much better than when he had left for his honeymoon, that his old balance was returning, and that he had regained quite a good deal of his old solid poise. However, a certain sturdy vigor he had had, a certain vital energy, had gone from him.
Charles was honestly interested in the affairs of his company, and became involved in them immediately. That was his nature. He complimented Friederich on the really extraordinary efficiency the latter had displayed. He said, smiling at his brother: “I’d never have thought it, candidly, Fred! But scratch a Wittmann and you’ll find a business man, every time. You’re a real burgher, Fred, a real sound bourgeois.”
Two years ago Friederich would have become inflamed with rage and affront at this. Now, he blushed like a young girl, with pleasure. The two men were sitting in Charles’ office. Friederich, haltingly, told Charles that he was glad he was pleased. He had done his best. Of course, there were a few little things—“Nothing,” said Charles, “compared with the big things you’ve done. The sound judgment.” He added, and his voice was smooth and without emotion: “I hope your boy, when he is born, will have your qualities. We’ve got to keep this business in the family, you know.”
He wondered why Friederich, all at once, looked distressed, and why he began to bite his lips. Now what? thought Charles. He waited. Friederich began to twiddle his fingers. “Something happened while you were away, Karl. The whole city is buzzing with it.” He paused. “Jochen left the Connington Steel Company. On September first. He resigned.”
“What!”
“Yes. And there was a newspaper interview. Jochen said that as he had always been a partner in business, an officer, he had made up his mind to look for an investment of his time and money in another machine tool company. He hinted that there were some good prospects in Cincinnati, for him.”
Charles was astounded. He could only stare at his brother. Friederich went on: “You know I neither hear nor spread rumors unless they are substantiated. However, there has been gossip that Jochen wanted to resign months ago, but that Brinkwell persuaded him to remain until he had found some suitable company in which he could invest, and become a partner. And the gossip continues that he has not found such a company, though Brinkwell has been trying to help him.”
Charles leaned back in his chair, and thought. His hand began to tap slowly on his desk. His little brown eyes quickened. He said at last: “So. Brinkwell’s been trying to ‘help’ Joe, has he? I doubt it. If anything, he’s been trying to keep him from leaving. I know Brinkwell. Anything else, Fred, from your bag of gossip?”
“It isn’t gossip, Karl,” replied Friederich, indignantly. “I’ve gotten much of this from George Hadden, who got it from his wife, who got it from a friend of Isabel’s. Now, it is very superior of you to smile like that! But women,” Friederich continued with the wise and serious air of a married man, “often hear authentic things long before they penetrate to the duller ears of men. An obscure German poet once said: ‘Women’s rumors run like the fire in grass before the major catastrophes, and they are the tolling of the church bells before the first sound of battle is heard.’” He regarded Charles severely. “I am almost of a mind not to tell you anything more.”
Charles was properly penitent. “Oh, go on, Fred. What else?”
“Isabel, I’ve heard, has been insisting that Jochen leave on September first, and go in things for himself. In spite of Jochen’s large salary. Don’t look so incredulous. And it was, indeed, Isabel’s and Jochen’s doing that broke off the engagement between their daughter and Brinkwell’s son. It is said that Jochen, at Isabel’s demand, gave his resignation to Brinkwell.”
“Well,” said Charles, “if that is so, Isabel’s been ‘converted,’ to use the whacking Fundamentalist term. What caused that, I wonder? She was getting along famously with Pauline Brinkwell. What turned Isabel from a society leader and a grande dame into a woman concerned with her husband’s welfare? And what made Jochen want to resign, anyway.”
Friederich, however, had no opinion to offer. But Charles knew that Friederich had his own secret convictions, even if he did not want to express them. This is what made him look so troubled and uncertain, and obstinate. Friederich, having emptied his “bag of gossip” got up, very dignified, and left Charles’ office.
Charles gave a lot of thought to Jochen’s affairs, and to the unbelievable story Friederich had told him. He was still somewhat incredulous. After some time he called the Willoughby and Jameson Machine Tool Company in Cincinnati. He was an old friend of Willoughby’s, and he knew he would get the truth. In an hour or so, he was connected with his friend.
“Jack,” he said, “I wonder if you can give me some confidential information. I’ve just heard, and it’s probably not true, that my brother Joe is trying to connect with a concern or two in your city.”
Even over the telephone Charles could detect the other man’s discomfort, for he was silent for some moments. Then he coughed, as if embarrassed, and said: “Well, yes, Charlie, it’s so. He wanted to come in here. We gave some thought to his proposition. We know he is a very valuable man. He approached us last June.”
“Well?” demanded Charles. “Why didn’t you take him?”
“I can’t go into details, Charlie,” said the other man, lamely. “It—it just wasn’t expedient, at the time.”
“Could you mean that
Brinkwell, of the Connington, persuaded you it wasn’t?”
“Now, Charlie,” said Mr. Willoughby.
“That’s all I wanted to know,” said Charles, and hung up abruptly.
Something had happened to Joe, he thought. He hadn’t been thrown out of the Connington. In the first place, Brinkwell needed such a man as Jochen Wittmann. In the second place, Jochen knew too much about the Connington’s affairs. Charles rubbed his forehead until it was red. There was something back in his mind—He could not remember. Something insistent It hung there, wanting conscious thought. It was irritating that it would not express itself, and it left a gnawing uneasiness in Charles.
The first day went well enough. One could do almost anything if one did not think. The horror and the grief were like clouds in the back of his mind. It was no use, however. If a man wanted to live—and Charles wanted to live now—he could not let himself think. One had to lift himself from the place he had fallen and go on, shattered, it is true, but still breathing and existing. One had to spin a web, like a cocoon, around a terrible event, and immoblize it, so that it wasn’t always fluttering around to make a man sick of living and wanting only to die.
At five o’clock, Charles’ big red automobile, which had been the delight of Jim’s life, called for him, and he was driven home. Charles had the automobile stopped for a moment to buy the first newspaper he had bought since he had received the news of Jim’s death. He scanned the headlines remotely. It had nothing to do with him now. He threw the paper away. He began to think of Phyllis, waiting for him. There was a sudden stir in him, as if something frozen was moving and awakening.
He pictured Phyllis on the verandah, in this bright and golden September evening, smiling at him as he got out of the automobile. But the verandah, the door, were empty as they had been for so long. There was no sign of Phyllis. Charles ran up the steps of the verandah, and, in the manner of men who had been before visited by calamity, he felt a premonition of disaster. He threw open the door, and did not know how loud his voice was when he cried: “Phyllis! Phyllis! Where are you?”
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