The Final Hour Page 5

  The soft light of the lamp emphasized all the hollows and pallor of his attentuated carved face, the quiet mouth with its hint of intellectual fanaticism, the shadows about his eyes, the strong resolution of his forehead. He returned his wife’s smile with weary passion and love. He extended his hand to her.

  ‘Hello, angel. Come to say good night to your miserable husband?’

  To smother a momentary revolt against his faint self-pity, she bent and kissed him gently and humorously. ‘Hello, wretch,’ she said, fondly. Her soft voice caught a little. She shook up his pillows, glanced at her jewelled watch, poured out a dose of the sedative he always took. It usually acted in about fifteen minutes. He took it obediently, looking at her with yearning tenderness. ‘Then he lifted her hand, kissed its palm. He sighed. She sat down on the corner of the bed. Now her face was beautiful in its compassion, its courage and its love.

  ‘Our last night out,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll be in New York. Then what?’

  He was silent. He lifted his hand and touched his lips with it, coughing automatically. Then he said: ‘We’re homeless vagabonds. What a life I’ve led you! Plans?’

  She bent and lifted one small box after another on his bed-table, examining the contents. ‘Peter! You didn’t take your vitamins at dinner! If I don’t watch you constantly, you neglect yourself. Just like a child. Well, it’s too late tonight. Tomorrow, you take a double dose.’

  She turned to him and smiled again. ‘Yes, plans. I don’t know. We have a choice of half a dozen homes or more, of our loving relatives. Who would you prefer? Until we can find a place of our own, or build? Of course, it would take a year to build, and we can circulate among the family, staying until each kicks us out.’

  She laughed merrily. He only smiled absently, looking away from her.

  Then he began to speak with hesitation: ‘Look here, this might be awkward. Today, I got a radiogram from Henri, inviting us to stay with him and Annette at Robin’s Nest.’

  She was rigid with surprise and shock. But she did not speak, only watched him intently.

  He spoke in a louder tone, as if justifying himself, or trying to break down what he believed would be her inevitable resistance:

  ‘Francis, Jean, Hugo, my precious brothers. I had a kind of liking for Francis at one time. Now, I don’t know. They’ve all invited us. The whole damn family. Very generous and affectionate of them. We can knock around from one to the other indefinitely, until we decide what to do. Somehow, I don’t admire the prospect. Besides, they make me ill. Have I ever told you how I despise all of them.’

  He laughed shortly, which brought on a fit of coughing. Celeste gave him a glass of water. He did not see that her hand was trembling a little. He drank; the cough subsided.

  He lay back on his pillows, breathing exhaustedly, drops of sweat out over his forehead and upper lip. His light-blue eyes were bloodshot. She looked at him, and her cool heart was torn as by iron fingers. His face was no paler than her own.

  In the sudden silence they could hear the wash and suck of the sea outside the port-holes, the laughter and footsteps of men and women on the deck, the distant sound of dance music.

  He said, suddenly, looking at her with suffering: ‘My darling, what a life you’ve had with me! What have I given you? You were so young when we were married, hardly more than a child. You were so happy, before you knew me. What have I brought you? Attendance on a contemptible invalid, vagabondage, homelessness, sleepless nights, constant nursing. You’ve never had a home. You’ve never had a husband,’ he added, in a lower tone, very quiet, but heavy with pain, and even shame. ‘How can I forgive myself? How can I hope you’ll ever forgive me? I despise myself.’

  The aching wound in her heart increased, expanded, until all her flesh was engulfed in its pangs. She laid her face beside his on the pillows. She could feel its heat, could hear the rasp of his uneasy breathing. She kissed his cheek, his lips, and tears smarted like molten metal in her eyes.

  ‘Peter, how can you say that? I love you so. I’ve always loved you so terribly. I never really cared about anyone else but you. You’ve brought me such happiness. I’ve hated myself because I could do so little for you. I’ve been so frightened. You don’t know what a coward I am. I never believed in anything—really. But since I’ve been married to you—I’ve prayed. Really prayed.’ She laughed, chokingly. ‘You’ve made me quite religious, darling.’

  He moved his head and pressed his cheek against her with feverish strength, and he sighed over and over, the mournful sound seeming to come from the very tortured depths of him. He smoothed the tumbled black hair on the pillow beside him with infinite tenderness and pain.

  ‘Whatever we’ve had has been so precious,’ she whispered, smiling radiantly into his eyes, her tears on her cheeks. ‘So very, very precious. I wouldn’t exchange that for anything in the world. That’s why I’ve prayed.’

  He continued to smooth her hair with his emaciated fingers. He thought: It will be better for her when I am dead. I must hurry. I must do what I’ve set out to do. When that’s done, I’ll let go. It’ll be easy to let go. But, I must hurry, before she suffers too much. Before it’s too late for her to pick up her life, that I’ve almost ruined, and go on, alone. She’s still young. She still has time to be happy.

  The thought gave him sudden joy, sudden ease. A faint colour came back into his livid face. He patted her cheek lightly.

  ‘Well, the prayers must have had some effect. I’ve been much better this last year. You know that. Before the last twelve months I was practically bedridden for two years. Now, I’m almost normal. I can get up for four—six—hours a day. I’ll be leaving the ship under my own steam. You must tell me about your new religion. Perhaps I could use a little of it, myself!’

  She sat up, wiping her tears away, laughing a little. ‘O Peter, remember how I dragged you to Lourdes? Wasn’t it ridiculous? Wasn’t it absurd? Making you drink that abominable water, kneeling among those gibbering people, looking at that silly grotto? I was so earnest! I knelt with you. I’ve wondered so often why you indulged me, by going.’

  He said, smiling only slightly, holding her hand again: ‘But it did you some good, my angel. Didn’t it, now? You looked quite refreshed after it, quite hopeful.’

  She shook her head, her smile making her white teeth sparkle in the soft light. ‘Well, there were all those crutches, and people whooping and crying out they were cured. Really hopeless cases. And all you had was a few damaged spots in your lungs. I considered you quite a bargain for the mystical powers. Just a few spots. It was quite a job to cure the cripples, I thought, and the blind and the deaf. During the supernatural handouts, your spots would only be a slight flicker of the ghostly wrist, a mere bagatelle of generosity. And, speaking of hopefulness, you didn’t cough for two months after that, so there!’

  They laughed together, in the fullness of love and remembrance.

  ‘Psychology,’ said Peter, at last. ‘You know, fully half of human ailments come from the mind. We know that, at last, just as the jungle witch-doctors and the medicine men and the alleged saints have always known it. Modern medicine is just bumbling along in a dishevelled and panting state in the rear of the ancient wizards and pagan faith-healers. Perhaps some day it will catch up. Kissing the stony hem of a statue of Hera or Juno, or the image if Isis, or the relics of Christian martyrs and saints, are all the same profound mumbo-jumbo. The altar of Diana—the grotto of Lourdes. One and the same. Supernaturalism? Only the supernaturalism, the ununderstandableness, of the human soul and mind. And, perhaps, the mystery of God, which is probably the same thing. Yes, I was helped at Lourdes. You can’t be in the presence of faith, even superstitious and ignorant faith, without being affected.’

  ‘I felt I had cheapened you, and myself,’ she said. ‘It seemed so mediæval. Gruesome, sickening, morbid, superstitious.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I was helped. We can’t get over that. I’ve often wondered if there aren’t localities in t
he world which are strongly impregnated with what we call “supernaturalism.” Which probably isn’t supernaturalism at all, but the remnant of unknown and mysterious charges of power, cosmic power. Like deposits of coal, or oil. They might have crystallized, like diamonds, when the world was cooling from its molten state. What are those deposits of unseen power? We know that the universe consists of tremendous atomic charges of neutrons and electrons, that what we know as “matter” is only those charges, constantly in flux, in incredible motion. The Hindoos never believed in “matter” at all, and countless mystics never believed in it either. They believed that “matter” and God are synonymous. When I take the time to think, I believe it, also.’

  He continued, reflectively: ‘I really almost believe in those cosmic deposits of mysterious power in certain localities of the world. Just as I sometimes believe that while there are benevolent deposits of unseen power of what we choose to call “good,” there are also deposits of what we call “evil.” And this evil explodes into the world periodically like an active volcano, affecting all men. It is exploding now. You can feel it. Reason, like a candle, can only illuminate a little of the caverns. But beyond its feeble light we hear strange cosmic echoes, catch shadows of mystery.’

  He turned to her, laughing gently. ‘Well, we are getting philosophical. Let us return to the surface and get back to things as they seem.’

  He hesitated. ‘Well, there’s Henri’s cable. I’ve given the matter thought. You and Annette were very close. Would you like to be with her for a while?’

  Her face became closed. He could not know her agitation. She thought: He’s forgotten. That is very sensible, of course. How foolish we were, once!

  She said: ‘I received a cable from Annette, inviting us. You’ll laugh at me, but I thought you’d refuse. I remembered that you and Henri were very antagonistic once. Even though he and Annette came nicely to our wedding, and you both shook hands very cordially afterwards.’

  Peter was amused. He looked almost well now, as he laughed.

  ‘That was a long time ago. We’re getting along in years now.’

  He paused, and was no longer amused. He regarded her with steadfast earnestness. ‘I’ll tell you the truth, my darling. You know what I’ve set out to do. As soon as possible, I must get to work. Another book. Perhaps several. You know my plans. That is why we are returning to Windsor. I must study the Bouchards. I’ve studied them from France, from England, from Germany, from Italy, from Russia. I know what they’ve been doing. I know whose hands move the State Departments, the American and foreign diplomats. And I know whose is the strongest hand. Henri’s.’

  ‘But, darling,’ she said, ‘our family isn’t that omnipotent. I know it’s pretty powerful. But it is only one organization. It can’t manipulate the whole world so easily.’

  ‘You forget its ramifications. You forget that it is entangled with all the men of power, in politics, in industry, in government. It is symbolic of all the men of power, the men of evil. In writing, one must confine the general to the particular. You can’t embrace the whole of mankind in a single book. You can use only a few characters, a few incidents. One symphony doesn’t contain all music. But it hints at all of it. It contains elements of all written and heard harmony.

  ‘Henri is the most powerful of the Bouchards. He is the “key man” of the “key men” of power. That’s why I want to study him at close hand.’

  She looked down at the sparkling ring on her left hand. She shook her head, smiling somewhat. ‘Isn’t that a little treacherous? We accept his hospitality, and you put him under a microscope!’ She laughed.

  He took her seriously. ‘You think it would be dishonourable? If you do, we won’t accept his invitation. I wouldn’t violate even the slightest compunction in you, my darling.’

  She laughed again. ‘O my pet! How humourless you are! I was only joking. You have your work to do. You know how devoted I am to your work. Almost as much as you are. I’d do anything to help you. We’ll go, then. I’ll radiogram Annette immediately. She and Henri have come especially to New York to meet us, and I think that is very kind of them. They are staying at the Ritz-Plaza, she says.’

  She bent and kissed him. The sedative had begun its work. His eyelids were heavy. There was a look of uneasy peace on his exhausted face. He watched her leave the room for her own room. His eyes followed her with passionate yearning to the last.

  He fell into tormented dreams, as usual.

  CHAPTER V

  Adelaide was sitting alone by her reading table in her bedroom when her daughter tapped softly on the door. Celeste entered, smiling faintly.

  ‘Mama? Am I disturbing you?’ She held the cable sent to Peter in her hand.

  ‘No, darling,’ answered Adelaide, putting aside her book. She regarded her daughter with sad fondness. The girl was so pale, so contained, so poised. Adelaide’s heart ached. She had lived in close intimacy with Celeste and Peter during these past five years, but she knew less about her daughter now than she had done fourteen years ago when Celeste had married Peter. There was never any indication of what she was thinking on that lovely ivory face, no flicker of her deepest thoughts in those dark-blue eyes. Adelaide’s sorrow was more than she could endure. Had she been wrong when she had manœuvred this marriage, believing it best for Celeste? Surely the marriage had brought nothing but pain and anxiety to the child, nothing but fear and sleepless nights. Had it brought a profound love? In the beginning, Adelaide had believed this. Now, she was not too sure. If there had only been a child! But she knew, with the subtle omniscence of a mother, that for the last ten years, at least, there had been no possibility of a child. She thought of the tender devotion, unremitting and patient service, Celeste had given her husband. Surely that must be love! But one could not tell, with Celeste. There was a grim Puritanism about the girl, a passion for silent duty, for hard self-immolation.

  Adelaide had often wanted to cry out to her beloved daughter, in anguish and tears: ‘Tell me, darling! Are you happy? Do you love poor Peter? Are you without regret? You must tell me, if I am to have just a little peace!’

  But she had never been able to say this. She was an old woman now, very old. She would soon die. She was so very tired. But never, even if she lived forever, could she bring herself to ask these questions. If she heard the answer, she might expire in one convulsion of remorseful agony. Or, she might be at peace. She dared not risk the first terrible possibility.

  At times she comforted herself with the remembrance that it was Celeste who had made the final decision to marry Peter, who had broken her engagement to the ruthless and coldly violent Henri Bouchard, her cousin. There was no weakness in Celeste. Under that exquisite poise and gentleness was a character like stone, something hard and uncompromising and determined. Nothing could have forced Celeste into a repugnant marriage. Yes, she had loved Peter. Of that, Adelaide was now sure. Did she still love him? Was she, Adelaide, never to know?

  Perhaps Celeste had always known that these questions tormented her mother. Perhaps that was the reason for her firm aloofness, her steadfast look that dared Adelaide to intrude impertinently, her quiet removal when the conversation showed any signs of becoming intimate. ‘Thus far shall you go, and no farther,’ had been the silent law of Celeste Bouchard. Adelaide had not been hurt by this hardness. She had only been frightened that perhaps Celeste did not dare allow any intimacy, for the sake of her own soul, her own fortitude, her own safety. She had done this thing; she had married Peter. All this was irrevocable. She had chosen her path, and she walked bravely and quietly upon it, not looking back, not turning aside, not even sighing.

  Sometimes, Adelaide, with terror, wondered if Celeste had loved Henri Bouchard. Oh, she dared not think of this! During the engagement, she, Adelaide, had been able to think of nothing but that Henri, with his cold viciousness, his arrogance, his relentless strength, would destroy the girl. He would violate the virtue in Celeste. Now, Adelaide was not so sure. Sometimes her terror
overwhelmed her. She remembered her own part in the breaking of the engagement. Was it now her punishment to watch the uncomplaining and patient suffering of her daughter? Was she to be given no chance to set her own mind at rest, to offer consolation, sympathy and affection? To pray for forgiveness?

  The hopeless question was again in her mind as Celeste seated herself near her mother. She was smiling her usual faint and quiet smile. She wore a thin black lace frock, through which her white flesh glowed like sun-warmed marble. Her bright black hair was exquisitely coiffed, though she had no personal maid. Her red mouth would have been perfect in her pale and luminous face had it not been for that deep and delicate hardness at the corners, the hardness of long patience. She fluttered the paper, and laughed a little.

  ‘You know, we are to stay at Crissons, for the summer, Mama?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ replied Adelaide, with yearning love in her tremulous voice.

  Celeste laughed a little, and stared into space. Her dark blue eyes were reflective, and somewhat satirical.

  ‘It has just occurred to me that we really have no home at all! Crissons is Christopher’s estate, even though he lives in Florida now, and rarely goes to Crissons. Let me see: it has been three years since he has been there. It’s sweet of him to offer me Crissons.’

  ‘You are his sister,’ said Adelaide, shrinking as always at the mention of the name of her youngest son. ‘Why shouldn’t you use Crissons? After all, I contributed to the furnishings, though heaven knows I thought them atrocious.’

  Celeste smiled. ‘Yes, the house is rather astringent. I never liked it, either inside or out. Edith hated it. I think she was glad she and Christopher went to Florida when they were married. We’ve never visited them in Florida. We might, this summer. Christopher has invited us. The climate might help Peter.’ She paused. As she spoke her husband’s name, the faint dim shadow, as always, touched her features, making their calmness waver and break up for a moment. She continued, in a slightly firmer tone: ‘Yes, it might be good for Peter. But you know the antagonism between him and