Never Victorious, Never Defeated Read online

  The State Railroad Company occupied three of the large front offices. One of the rooms was Stephen’s, with gold lettering on the door: “Aaron deWitt, President,” and contained two desks, Stephen’s and his father’s. Rufus, the superintendent, had a smaller room to himself. The other room was occupied by four bookkeepers, five clerks, and an office boy.

  The deWitts had another large and grimy office at the local railroad station, and Rufus was more often in this than in the one at the Portersville Bank building. His was the more active part in the running of the railroad, which had suited him splendidly until lately. His father had been ill for nearly a year, and had visited the offices only four times in eight months.

  The offices looked down, from the third story, on the busy little square with its statue of Benjamin Franklin (very green and vague) in the center. One had an excellent view of the square, its trees and winding paths, the opposite streets, the adjacent river, and the dark and imminent mountains rising beyond the town.

  As the deWitts were disliked, with the exception of the colorful Rufus (who had conveyed the impression that he still loved East Town and was apologetic over his family’s snobbery), there was little traffic between the private offices above the bank and the offices of the State Railroad Company. What traffic there was occurred when Rufus was present, and then there would be much backslapping, much laughter, much smoke, and many stories, with Rufus perched in all his informal splendor on the edge of his desk and his laughter louder than that of the others. They assured Rufus privately, and over and over, that he was being unjustly treated by his father, and that he, not Stephen, should be vice-president in spite of his age. To which Rufus would reply in smiling mock horror, “I? All that damned paper work? God save the thought! I’d rather be out where people live, and in here, where my friends are welcome.”

  The war had been able to create little bitterness in Portersville. There were a few who had dared to assert that the Southern states were within their rights to secede, and produced copies of the Constitution to prove it. These arguments had not been pushed aside, angrily and with patriotic vehemence; they had been soberly considered, and even opponents had agreed with much of the contentions. No lasting enmities had resulted from the arguments; it was granted that one had a right to his opinions, and even those most passionately devoted to Mr. Lincoln had expressed their doubts of some of his unconstitutional actions and had declared that they regarded his inclination toward centralized government with considerable apprehension. Slavery was morally wrong, but everyone knew that slavery was not the issue. Had not Mr. Lincoln reiterated that over and over in his speeches? The issue was secession, which was constitutionally legal, but dangerous with Europe so watchful and so lustful across the Atlantic.

  Even when some placards had appeared at night on the streets, with a caricature of Mr. Lincoln on them, and bearing the words: “Down with the Dictator!” no fierce rage or resentment had been engendered in the townsfolk. No windows had been broken; friends had not become enemies. But all this, too, would come later, much later.

  When Gettysburg became the scene of a most terrible battle, Portersville was filled with the wildest excitement. Thousands gathered at the railroad station to mourn over the wounded, whether friend or “enemy.” Women entered the coaches to minister to the soldiers, regardless of the uniforms, and came out bloodstained and weeping, in bombazine and silk and woolen skirts, in velvet bonnets or with shawls over their heads, empty baskets, which had contained food and drink and bandages, in their hands. The doctors of Portersville had rushed to the assistance of their exhausted colleagues on the trains, and had not noticed whether these colleagues wore gray or blue. They had talked with their brothers, had shaken their heads over the war, had sighed, had even let the unashamed tears roll down their bearded cheeks. When the coaches went on, to the hospitals, they went accompanied by prayers.

  When Mr. Lincoln was assassinated, he was mourned conservatively, and none of his former enemies in Portersville were looked at bitterly or condemningly. It was bad, very bad. But there was a Vice-President, and one must look to the future and help the South with her terrible problems and her awful wounds. No people were more aghast, more indignant, more enraged against the “carpetbaggers” than the people of Portersville; and if any of the men of the town were involved in this shameless plunder of the defeated states, they kept it a dark and fearful secret.

  Portersville had its own wounded, its own dead. The people of both sections mourned them, side by side, in the cemeteries. There were no social distinctions in the graveyards. This, too, would come later.

  It was a good place to live, Portersville, in the sixties, in the noble Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

  Pigeons caught the lead-colored light of the March morning on their wings, as they flew from window to window.

  March was the hiatus between seasons, unsoftened by snow, a bare grayness, a dun neutrality, a somber hollowness. The square below was mud, with patches of brown and sodden grass; the black trees tangled their branches together like the bare scaffolding of a ruined cathedral. Sometimes gales convulsed them under a livid sky in which the misty sun was only a blur of paler lividity. The dank coldness of the air penetrated clothing, and carriages moving along the streets of the square seemed to have become smaller, the horses languid with misery. The people walked as fast as they could, huddling themselves in their capes and shawls and greatcoats, their faces bent, the wind catching at skirts and whirling hats off unprotected heads. The gray light was reflected back from the polished windows of shops.

  Beyond Portersville, from this view from the offices of the State Railroad Company, rose the sharp outlines of Knife Mountain. However, it resembled an enormous razor rather than a knife, a razor held horizontally and its handle dropping a little lower than the blade. Purple and clearly defined, it contrasted acutely against the cold and colorless sky, and added gloom to the general scene.

  Stephen, since his father’s illness, had occupied Aaron’s desk near the window, a large square desk with a leather top. His own desk was bare, and smaller than Aaron’s, and stood near a wall at right angles. The office was large and light; a crimson carpet covered the parquetry floor, and there were vivid hunting prints on the white walls. Leather chairs, in red and green, and ornamented with brass nailheads, were scattered neatly throughout the room, and a comfortable fire roared and leaped in a black marble fireplace. On the mantel stood a mahogany clock with pleasant chimes, and against another wall personal and secret filing cabinets of mahogany, always locked, contained documents pertinent to the company. In one corner lurked a small iron safe, the only ugly note in the office.

  Stephen’s brief case lay on his desk before him. He had withdrawn a few documents of considerable thickness, and he held them in his hand. But he was not looking at them now; his eyes were moving slowly and abstractedly over the square, and the gigantic razorlike mountain beyond the little city.

  Alone, he could relax, and his natural melancholy lay like a dark shadow over his nondescript features and brown eyes and thin brown hair. His subdued clothing, not excellently tailored, bunched on his shoulders and arms.

  Yet, in spite of the melancholy and the stillness of his attitude, and the arms bent awkwardly on the desk, his face revealed his sad intellectuality, his deep thoughtfulness and introspection. These traits, painfully hidden when he was in the company of others, gave him a look of quiet nobleness and dignified withdrawal.

  He lifted his right hand and reflectively smoothed his mustache. When his hands moved at all, it was to be seen that they were thin and elegant, the hands of a philosopher and thinker. No one noticed this, of course, except Alice and Lydia, just as only they had ever seen him so contained and preoccupied with thought, and contemplative without fear or shrinking.

  The scene outside the windows seemed part of him, part of his static despondency. He watched the pigeons flutter from window to window. For a few moments he fixed his unremarkable eyes on the mountain,
and now they were no longer unremarkable. They were alive, not with vividness, but with resolution.

  He did not hear the knock on his paneled door, and so he started quite noticeably when he heard Rufus’s cheerful voice. “Plotting, Steve?” asked Rufus laughingly. It was a joke between him and his mother about Stephen’s “plotting.” It was understood between them that Stephen had too little intelligence for this.

  Stephen, his back still to his brother, hastily caught up the documents before him and thrust them quickly into the brief case. Then he turned and gave Rufus his uncertain smile. His eyes were dull again, and lightless, and betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “Not exactly,” he answered. The clock on the mantelpiece struck nine. Stephen was always the first at the offices, and since his father’s illness he had taken to arriving as early as half-past seven. He lived closer to the town than did Rufus, who usually arrived later.

  The gray light in the office was dissipated by the entrance of Rufus; it retreated to the corners of the room, as shadows retreat before the burst of the sun in the morning. Rufus seated himself on the edge of Stephen’s desk, and his handsome face glowed with friendliness and good will. This expression was so natural for him, so automatic, that he could expend it as freely on his brother as on his many friends, and so, in spite of his many long thoughts on the subject of Rufus, and his instinctive, sick knowledge, Stephen felt himself beguiled and confused, as usual.

  A few weeks ago his best friend, Joseph Baynes, had said to him bitterly of Rufus, “‘He hath a person and a smooth dispose, to be suspected.’”

  To which Stephen, faintly smiling, had murmured, “Yes, I know, Iago. But I think you wrong Rufus—in a way.”

  Mr. Baynes had thought this very naїve, and in spite of his affection for Stephen, he could not help thinking with a little contempt: “… Thinks men honest that but seem to be so.”

  Stephen studied Rufus’s symmetrical and powerful body, his artless beaming face, his affectionate smile. The old aching bewilderment came to him. If Rufus was completely evil he would be universally avoided, unless—and for an instant the clue glimmered before Stephen’s inner eye—there were some men who did not believe that what they did was evil, and were incapable of considering any of their actions evil. … The clue winked out, and Stephen shook his head slightly.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Rufus, interested. “Headache, Steve? By the way, nothing has happened as yet, has it?”

  “No. But Dr. Worth thinks the child will be born any day now. Alice is very well, and we don’t expect any trouble. I hope she won’t have so hard a time as Lydia did.”

  For only a moment there was a tightening about Rufus’s beaming eyes, and a little puckering about his smile. It was not a gentle expression, in spite of the bluff and engaging smile which remained fixed on his face. He lit a cigar, and the sulfur smell of the lucifer with which he had lighted it lingered acridly in the air.

  “Yes, Liddie did have a hard time. Let’s hope Alice has a better one. By the way, you and Alice haven’t been up to the house for nearly a month, and Pa is asking for you.”

  Stephen, as usual, was quick to apologize, even when no apology was necessary. This fault came from his aversion for inflicting even unintentional slights or hurts on others. “But you bring me messages from him every day, Rufus, and instructions—”

  “In a sealed envelope,” interrupted Rufus, grinning wryly.

  Stephen’s thin cheeks took on color. “Pa doesn’t mean any offense to you. It’s just his way; he always seals everything, even of the most insignificant importance. The habit of a lifetime. You mustn’t feel offended. After all, I show you the papers after I have opened them, Rufus.”

  “So you do.” Rufus leaned toward his brother and put his hand affectionately on that meager shoulder. “I’m not blaming you, not for a second.”

  Stephen was silent in his distress, and humbled. Rufus had not blamed him, but he felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps he should write his father and ask him not to seal the envelopes. It was hardly fair to Rufus. Again, Stephen was betrayed by his abnormal compassion and consideration for others.

  Rufus watched the wretched struggle in this “gray fish,” and was pleased. His was a mind so acute that it could follow almost every thought in the minds of others, and this in itself was partly the secret of his popularity. He waited. However, Stephen, always sparing of words, was keeping silent too long, and Rufus’s instincts stirred.

  Now Stephen began to speak slowly: “Pa must understand that Alice can’t ride any distance now, and I dislike leaving her even for a short time. Besides, for some reason, she has taken to crying at night, the poor child.”

  “Why, of course, of course,” said Rufus in his rich voice of intimate understanding. “Liddie did that too.”

  “Did she?” Stephen was relieved. Then he stopped. Rufus had lied. Lydia was always serene; she had been especially serene, if a little too quiet, during the time she had been carrying Cornelia.

  He looked up at Rufus, sitting there on his desk, smoking, all his glory of body and face artlessly and completely evident, all his friendliness and sympathy shining from his bright hazel eyes. Rufus said, “Any messages to our friends in Philadelphia? I’m going again tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? You go very often now, don’t you, Rufus?” The words were sincere and contained no undertone, but Rufus studied his brother with narrowed concentration. Sometimes he suspected that this shadowy and humble and gentle man had “depths” which were dangerous.

  “Why, so I do,” he said in that open and boyish way of his. He laughed. “More and more to do in our office in Philadelphia. And very convenient for our friends. No long letterwriting. Dispatch.”

  He stood up and stretched, and he was like a fine tawny lion in his color and motions. He wandered to the window and looked at the square below. “Terrible day. Everyone hurrying. I don’t like the idea, but I have to go down to the station.” He began to hum musically to himself in a rich baritone. The smoke rose from his cigar. Finally he returned to Stephen, and again perched on the desk.

  “Pa’s very excited about our decision to run a line from Philadelphia to Washington, in competition with the Capital Railway.” He spoke negligently, and implied that this was all Stephen’s energetic idea. He admired Stephen with his eyes, and Stephen blushed. “Rufus, you know it was your thought, more than mine,” he said.

  “No, no, I won’t hear that! You have so much self-depreciation, Steve. I only concurred in your suggestion.” This had been quite true, but Rufus was so enthusiastic, so admiring, that Stephen was touched by a sense of guilt again, a guilt without reason.

  Rufus exhaled blue smoke rings and watched them happily. “But I’m not without ideas of my own, Steve. Those small railroads running between Philadelphia and Washington: useless little affairs, just connecting odd communities, when they ought to be linked to the main railway—ours, and owned by us. …”

  Stephen was alerted. He had heard these hints from Rufus before. He protested, saying, “But these ‘useless little affairs’ are run by other families, and bring income to them. Why should we deprive others of income?”

  Rufus laughed boisterously, and regarded his brother with a twinkle. “Why? Because we want to grow. Expand! That’s the watchword since the war. Besides, these little railroads are practically bankrupt now. The banks in Philadelphia hold their bonds, and I hear the railroads can’t even pay the interest, in many cases. If, for instance, we bought the bonds, we’d have these feeders to our line. We’d better think about it, before long. The Capital is thinking of it, I assure you!”

  Stephen was now as cold as winter ice. He tapped his brief case with one lean finger. He murmured, “We talked this over and over—”

  “I know, I know!” Rufus was all glowing and laughing sincerity. “But you’ve always opposed it, Steve, and Pa, for some strange reason, has upheld you. What’s the matter with the two of you? You, I know, are conservative, but Pa was always an entrepreneur.
Is he in his dotage or something? Where is his old imagination, his old plotting and boldness? Not that I’m belittling you, Steve. Not at all! Your work didn’t include planning at any time. However, I do think that you, as Pa’s deputy now, should pull yourself away from your everlasting papers and think about us, and the future.”

  Stephen was silent. He looked down at his brief case, and to him, it seemed to contain a high explosive. He put his hand on it, as if to protect it from Rufus. Rufus saw the gesture, and his ruddy brows lifted.

  Then Stephen said, “Over half the feeders and little railroads running from community to community are owned by Joseph Baynes, who is a friend of ours.”

  Rufus laughed this off lightly. “Joseph Baynes, you know very well, Steve, is a stick-in-the-mud. He made money only during the war, carrying ammunition and soldiers and such to our main line. He never made a go of his business before the war, and hardly could pay his running expenses. The war saved him. But he isn’t being saved now. Our good friend, Alex Peale, president of the Philadelphia Savings Bank, holds almost all of Joe’s bonds. We could buy them up for a song.”

  Rufus had long hinted about this and had discussed Joseph Baynes’s feeders and little local railroads with his father, and Stephen had listened. There had been hints, too, of the bonds. Stephen had paid all this little attention, until lately. His undistinguished face became closed and expressionless.

  “We’ve talked of this before,” added Rufus.

  “I know.” Stephen’s voice was hardly audible.