My Heart Laid Bare Part 25

"That brute!-he's no blood relative of mine," Bertram said angrily. "And two hundred million is at stake, at the very least. Our aunt is sure to die within a few years-"

"No, no-the Sewalls live forever. Like that ghastly race of Struldbruggs of which Jonathan Swift wrote, who never die but only live and live, in total senility. She will outlive us all."

Lyle said, exasperated, "The man is Roland, I'd swear to it. I've seen in him the very person we'd pitied and disliked. You want to imagine that that weak, ineffectual, overgrown baby is someone other than our cousin; you're simply too eager, brothers, to want to believe that our cousin is dead."

Again they fell silent; sucked at their cigars; stared at the floor.

After some minutes Bertram said, with a sly sidelong smile at his brothers, "If he's died once, y'know-he can die a second time."

And Willard, the eldest and most responsible, wheeled upon Bertram, giving his upper arm a hard blow, as if they were boys. "G.o.d d.a.m.n you for a fool, Bertie-you must never say that sort of thing where anyone else, even a servant, might hear."

Roland Shrikesdale III was recovering his health by degrees, painfully and haltingly. But everyone agreed that he was recovering.

By early winter he was strong enough to dress, and to take most of his meals downstairs at Castlewood; to walk about the grounds unescorted; to attend church with his mother; to sit, nervous, smiling, but for the most part silent, at small social gatherings that did not overtax him. He ate heartily, which delighted Anna Emery; he slept very well indeed-"like a baby"-being capable of staying abed for twelve hours at a stretch, until Anna Emery herself gaily roused him. Despite the frequency with which they received invitations-for Roland Shrikesdale III was one of Philadelphia's most eligible, and wealthy, bachelors-Anna Emery and Roland condescended to accept few invitations to dine out; they much preferred the theater or the concert hall, where, as Roland said, he felt his spirit quicken and vibrate, as of old.

Ah, what joy, what balm, to listen for hours to the music of Mozart, or Wagner, or Beethoven!-to give himself up to the caprices of Rigoletto, as he'd done of old! There, seated close beside his mother in the Shrikesdale family box, leaning forward to drink in, with quivering intensity, every note-that was the pale, stocky, ravaged young Shrikesdale heir, oblivious of the attention he drew on all sides; so immersed in the music, it was as if he'd never left the safety of Philadelphia to suffer his mysterious adventure. (Indeed, it remained mysterious, for Roland was incapable of remembering save in jagged and incoherent fragments; and no trace was found of his companion, who must have died somewhere in the wilds of New Mexico.) "He's Anna Emery's boy as he has always been," observers noted, eyeing him covertly, "-though he is much changed."

By degrees, the scar tissue on the side of Roland's face acquired a less painful, and a less startling, appearance; where once it had ached violently, Roland now confessed it was numb. And, too, was not something gone now from the corner of his eye, that he dimly recalled was ugly?-a birthmark, a mole?

Anna Emery s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away from his face, squeezing it hard, as one might do with a small child; partly to reprimand and partly to comfort. She told him it had been a mole; but it had not been at all ugly; for there was nothing ugly about him-neither now nor in the past.

Ah, but the warts scattered across his hands!-Roland said with a fastidious shudder. Surely these were ugly-?

At this, Anna Emery flinched; for, it seemed, she too had warts on her hands-they were a family affliction of the Sewalls, vexing but harmless.

"You have had them all your life, dear, and have not often complained," Anna Emery said, hurt. "Indeed, I remember you speaking of them as a minor sort of curse, as curses go."

Roland showed some embarra.s.sment at his rudeness, and tried to make amends. He stooped to embrace his trembling mother; kissed her cheek; and said earnestly, "Yes, you are right, Mother-I believe I remember now: a minor sort of curse, as curses go."

IT BEGAN TO happen that, in the presence of marveling witnesses, Roland Shrikesdale was struck by flashes of memory-whole episodes out of his former life resuscitated by way of a stray word or gesture, or an accidental combination thereof. Ah, what an experience, to see the amnesiac waking, as it were, from a part of his eerie trance-!

For instance, in January of 1915, at a small dinner party given by a friend of Anna Emery's, at which Stafford Shrikesdale happened to be a guest, Roland astonished everyone by suddenly clutching at his head, when his hostess happened to speak of Admiral Blackburn. He grimaced, as if he were in fearful pain; and rocked in his chair; saying finally in a hoa.r.s.e, halting, yet elated voice that the name "Blackburn" stirred such a memory!-if memory it was, and not a child's dream-of a sweet-tempered pony, a Shetland with long s.h.a.ggy mane and tail, liquid-bright eyes, a black hide streaked with gray-his beloved pony Blackburn!

Then, as everyone listened in great excitement, Roland shut his eyes, and, speaking slowly and dreamily, yet deliberately, proceeded to recall not only the Shetland pony, but the green-painted pony cart in which he had ridden at the age of six . . . the "big farm" out in the country (in fact, in Bucks County) . . . a young black boy, a favored stable hand named Quincy, who had been allowed to supervise little Roland's play . . . and a dignified elderly gentleman with snapping black eyes and white, white hair who must have been . . . must have been . . . Grandfather Shrikesdale himself, dead since 1889.

Poor Anna Emery could contain herself no longer; but began to sob helplessly; and had to be comforted by Stafford Shrikesdale, of all people-who'd begun to tremble himself, hearing Roland's remarkable recitation.

On another occasion, hardly less dramatic, at a reception at the home of Mrs. Eva Clement-Stoddard, Roland lapsed into an extraordinary fugue state, as if he had been hypnotized, when the name "Maclean" was mentioned-for this triggered a memory of a Scots woman of that name who had been little Roland's nanny at Castlewood; which in turn triggered a memory astonishing in its visual and tactile detail of the nursery in which Roland had spent his first eight years. The stuffed toys with which he played, and slept . . . the floral print of his bed quilt . . . the view of the old rose garden and the fountain from his window . . . poor Miss Maclean who spent a great deal of her time weeping and sighing, for what reason the child Roland did not know . . . and, most vivid of all, most poignant of all, Mother with her hair loosed on her shoulders, rocking him, crooning to him, kissing him . . . reading to him his favorite fairy tales in her sweet melodic voice . . .

At this halting recitation, made as Roland swayed on his feet, his head thrown back, his eyes shut, and his lips gleaming with spittle, not only Anna Emery Shrikesdale but a number of ladies were reduced to tears; and all the gentlemen close by were powerfully affected. An astonishing feat of memory, indeed, for anyone at all-let alone a man suffering from amnesia! It seemed that Roland's unconscious mind was stimulated to such a degree by these chance a.s.sociations, the memories came unbidden to his consciousness, and possessed an extraordinary potency. Evidently Roland could not initiate them, nor, once begun, could they be stopped; they must simply run their course; leaving the perspiring young man drained and exhausted, and his skin, already sallow, turned a sickly grayish-yellow hue.

The Philadelphians who witnessed such heartrending trances could hardly doubt that Roland was Roland; and if, now and then, from decidedly queer sources, they heard whisperings that the Shrikesdale heir was not quite the man one supposed him to be . . . such idiotic rumors were irritably dismissed at once, as the speculations of the yellow press.

"He is a remarkable case, is he not?" Dr. Thurman, the Shrikesdales' physician, said proudly. "When he's fully restored to his health I shall make a name for myself-and, of course, for Roland as well-by writing up his story. The medical world will scarcely believe it."

In the spring of 1915, when newspapers were filled with stories of the barbarous sinking of the British liner Lusitania by German submarine, and reports of President Wilson's uncompromising response, there was delivered to Mr. Abraham Licht of Muirkirk a most curious telegram, indeed- ALBERT ST. GOAR ESQ. IS HEREBY INVITED TO A CHARITY FTE HE WILL NOT FAIL TO FIND AMUSING CASTLEWOOD HALL PHILADELPHIA SUNDAY MAY 15 2 PM TWO TICKETS RESERVED IN HIS NAME SHOULD HE WISH TO BRING A COMPANION ("COMPLICITY?") Astonished, Abraham Licht read it several times over, rapidly; and showed it to old Katrina, who could make nothing of it; and even, later-though father and daughter happened not to be on the most cordial of terms at the moment-to Millie, who likewise read it several times, and turned a frightened face toward him. "But who knows of 'St. Goar' here at Muirkirk!" she whispered. "It must be a plot of some kind."

Abraham smiled suddenly, though not, precisely, at Millie; and said as if brooding aloud, "Yes, it is a plot of some kind-to whose advantage, we must discover."

So it happened that Abraham Licht drove himself and Millie down to Philadelphia, in his newly acquired Packard touring car (plum-colored, with creamy-white upholstered interior and gleaming chrome trim); and, on that splendidly sunny Sunday, joined a slow procession of carriages and new-model motorcars through the gates of Castlewood Hall, and up along the quarter-mile gravelled drive to the house. As Albert St. Goar and his daughter Matilde, he had acquired at the gate two tickets priced at $300 each-the proceeds of the afternoon's fte to go to the United Hospitals Charity a.s.sociation of Philadelphia.

A double row of plane trees lining the drive . . . a gently sloping lawn, or meadow, of several acres . . . azalea, rhododendron, and lilac in gorgeous blossom . . . Castlewood Hall itself: a mansion of eclectic American design (eighteenth-century Gothic the predominant style) of pale gray stone, with an immense curving portico, and too many windows to be counted. Baring his teeth around his cigar, Abraham Licht exclaimed: "'This is Heaven, nor can we wish to be out of it!'"-in so ingenuous a tone, it would have been impossible to judge whether he spoke sincerely, or in mockery. Beside him, her gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap, Millie stared at the house-the lawn-the handsomely dressed ladies and gentlemen strolling about-and said nothing at all. She had in fact been silent for much of the drive; it was her conviction that they should not have come.

"I can think of only one person, Father, who might have sent us that telegram," she had said, after much thought, "-and he does not wish us well."

"Of course there is only one person who might have sent the telegram," Abraham Licht said irritably, "-and of course he does wish us well."

St. Goar's automobile was taken from him at the front entrance of the house, and driven off by a liveried servant to be parked elsewhere; leaving father and daughter feeling suddenly exposed, and on their own. Still, as they strolled through the crowd, very few persons glanced their way; they knew no one, and, it seemed, no one knew them. "How long must we stay, Father?" Millie asked, looking suspiciously about. "I think it must be a hoax." To his disappointment Abraham Licht, or, to be precise, Albert St. Goar (formerly of London, England: a gentleman "retired from business") soon discovered that there were no beverages stronger than lemonade, iced tea, and cranberry juice to be had at the fte; and, like a fool, he'd left his silver flask behind, locked away in a compartment in his car.

"We will stay, Matilde," St. Goar said severely, "-until the scene is played out, and we know its significance."

They made their questing way through the crowd of chattering strangers on the flagstone terrace; they made their way, Matilde's arm through St. Goar's, into a garden of topiary shrubs, statues in stained white marble, and gently splashing fountains; they allowed themselves to drift into the nimbus of ladies and gentlemen gathered about one of the refreshment tables, beneath an immense red-and-white striped awning; they exchanged greetings, vague yet animated, animated yet vague, with people who drifted past. St. Goar was fashionably dressed in a dove-gray costume of lightweight wool, with an embroidered silk vest, and a flowing white silk shirt; he wore a straw hat not unlike the hats worn by the majority of the other gentlemen, and a white carnation in his b.u.t.tonhole, and gray mohair spats; and looked, on the whole, quite handsome and a.s.sured. His beautiful daughter Matilde (who had attended schools in Switzerland and France, until the outbreak of the War) wore a spring frock of the sheerest cotton, arranged in many layers of robin's-egg blue and pale cerise, with a cerise sash that showed her tiny waist to artful advantage; and a skirt designed to show a surprising amount of ankle, and the silky gleam of transparent stockings. Her blond hair, smartly bobbed, was, for modesty's sake, perhaps, very nearly hidden by a hat with a wide scalloped brim, and a veil of dotted swiss.

Yet something chill and haughty in the young woman's expression discouraged gentlemen from approaching her; and, in any case, there were a number of extremely pretty young women at the fte, known, no doubt, to Society.

"Strange that our host doesn't come forward to identify himself," Albert St. Goar said, surveying the crowd with a pleasant if abstract smile, "-for I have the sense that he watches us, perhaps with amus.e.m.e.nt."

"With no amus.e.m.e.nt," Matilde said curtly, disengaging her arm from her father's. "You forget-he is a creature without a sense of humor."

With this, Matilde drifted off; and St. Goar, following slowly behind her, found himself, within a few minutes, in a curious conversation with a small, bald, irritable gentleman of approximately his own age (although he, St. Goar, looked a full decade younger) on a subject not easily grasped: the political situation? the perfidy of the German-Americans? the price paid by the gentleman's wife for her horoscope? ("You would agree, sir, that $25,000 is too steep a sum, would you not? What is your opinion, sir?") It was St. Goar's instinctive understanding that this mousey little man, this person of such evident inconsequence, must be in fact a very wealthy man; and an important contact, perhaps, for St. Goar; yet, though St. Goar fell in vehemently with his denunciation of astrology and astrologists, or was it the German-American spies in our midst, his heart wasn't truly in the exchange, and his attention continued to be focused upon his daughter as, in a pose of insouciance, she strolled through the crowd of strangers, twirling her parasol on her shoulder. The filmy layers of her dress rode the breeze, lightly; her step was graceful; her manner, to the casual eye, intensely feminine-in the old-fashioned sense of the word. Yet, how strong her will; and how her father was growing to fear it-!

It was then that St. Goar chanced to see a stocky young man in a Panama hat, pushing someone in a wheelchair, brush, by accident, close by Matilde; saw how Matilde glanced around, startled; and how, like a small rude child, she knew no better than to stare, and stare-and stare. Even as St. Goar made his way to her, he saw that she was swaying, as if about to faint; she pressed a gloved hand against her throat; and drew away from the young man who, with some clumsiness, yet gallantry, made an effort to take hold of her arm, and steady her. "Very odd, very very odd," St. Goar thought angrily, "-it isn't like a daughter of mine, to be so odd!"

When he hurried to her, however, he saw, through a sudden vertiginous blur, the cause of her incredulity: for the husky young man in the Panama hat, who, smiling and blushing, was nervously introducing himself as Roland Shrikesdale, and the woman in the wheelchair as his mother, Anna Emery Shrikesdale ("your hostess, you know, for this afternoon") was no one other than . . . Harwood.

. . . who was also, evidently, unless Abraham Licht had suddenly lost his senses, the son of the squinting old woman in the wheelchair; even as the old woman must be Elias Shrikesdale's widow, and the proprietress of Castlewood Hall.

Precisely how the remarkable scene was managed, and whether, as St. Goar, he acquitted himself respectably, Abraham Licht could not afterward remember: for his brain was adazzle.

Harwood!-his Harwood!

After so many years!

Yet he was Harwood no longer: and darted quick warning glances at St. Goar and his daughter, not to stare too raptly.

As to who he was . . .

Plump, nervous, his skin sallow, a queer strip of scar tissue running down the left side of his face; his thick hair brushed flat, and severely parted; his mouth smaller, pinker, more moist than it had been of old. Not quite manly, perhaps; boyish, shy, sweet; inclined in certain situations to stammer; yet clearly intelligent and well-spoken; and unfailingly gallant to his mother-leaning now over Mrs. Shrikesdale's wheelchair, and holding her lace-gloved hand in his as if to steady its tremor. (One could see at a glance that they were mother and son: their squinting smiles were identical.) Herewith, some minutes of bright brisk nervous social chatter, on Roland's part primarily, as he explained to his guests the tradition behind the May fte (held each year in Philadelphia, and held every six years or so at Castlewood, depending upon his mother's health); and to Mrs. Shrikesdale that he had met Albert St. Goar and Matilde some years ago, in London . . . when Matilde had been a schoolgirl . . . and Albert had been involved in antiquarian books . . . and they had enjoyed one another's company enormously; but had, unfortunately, lost contact over the years.

"It was naughty of you, Roland, not to bring them to meet me, then," Mrs. Shrikesdale said, in a faint, breathless, yet coquettish voice, fixing her watery gaze upon Albert St. Goar; and Roland, his cheeks lightly flushed, murmured in her ear, in some embarra.s.sment, "But Mother, I'm afraid, you know, I did-one beastly rainy afternoon-to our suite at Claridge's. You enjoyed our little tea with them so much at the time-and now, dear, you seem to have forgotten it entirely!"

St. Goar and his daughter now recalled the visit with evident pleasure, despite its having been some years ago; which threw poor Mrs. Shrikesdale clearly into the wrong. She begged their forgiveness; called herself a silly old feather-brained fool; and, extending her trembling hands to them both, she insisted they come soon-very soon-to dine with her and Roland at Castlewood.

"Why, we shall be happy to do so, Mrs. Shrikesdale-we shall be delighted," Albert St. Goar said in a voice of quiet elation.

Following this lucky meeting, it transpired naturally that St. Goar and his daughter frequently visited Castlewood; were introduced by the kindly Mrs. Shrikesdale and her son to a number of extremely interesting Philadelphians; and even made the decision by midsummer to move from their home in upstate New York to an apartment on fashionable Rittenhouse Square, which Roland helped them acquire. Mrs. Shrikesdale was thoroughly charmed by St. Goar, who knew, it seemed, all about music, and history, and poetry, and painting-almost as much, indeed, as Joseph Duveen himself. ("He is so cultured a gentleman!-he may even be a genius, to hear him talk! Might not he and Eva Stoddard make an ideal pair?" Mrs. Shrikesdale asked, suddenly, one evening, in schoolgirl excitement; and Roland said lightly, "I had already thought of that weeks ago, dear.") As to Matilde St. Goar-why, being so blessed with beauty, was the young woman so singularly melancholy; and, when not melancholy, so disagreeably bright, and brittle, and arch-her very laughter like shattered gla.s.s?

Roland confessed that he didn't know, as he'd never been on intimate terms with either St. Goar or Matilde; but word was, poor Matilde had suffered a broken heart, about which she would never speak out of pride.

AS TO ROLAND Shrikesdale himself-despite the efforts of any number of parties, he rarely showed any interest in the opposite s.e.x, at the various social events to which he escorted his mother; nor was he, for the remainder of his life, ever to regain his full memory. Yet, by degrees, his health returned-in fact, as Dr. Thurman remarked with some perplexity, Roland's health more than returned!-for the new Roland, having survived his ordeal in the desert, was becoming far more fit than the old.

Also, to the delighted surprise of people who'd known him since boyhood, and had known something of his father's wishes for him, Roland began to show a tentative interest in horses, both in breeding and in racing; as, of course, Elias had done through his life. And, in his shy way, he began to express an interest in traveling abroad, or even back West-though hastily promising his mother that he would never, never go without her, this time. "When you're feeling more yourself, dear, we shall go by rail to the Rockies," Roland said cheerfully. "For they are one of G.o.d's great spectacles, and must not be missed."

To Bagot Roland also expressed some childlike curiosity, for the first time, about the Shrikesdale fortune; and some distress, that, within the next few years, as a thoughtless relative had happened to mention, Roland would be obliged to sue for power of attorney over his mother's estate. "It's true that Mother is failing week by week," Roland said in a quavering voice, his eyes aswim in tears, "-but I cannot believe that there will be a time when she is not fully herself; I cannot believe it. And, do you know, I have but the dimmest notion of what is meant by 'power of attorney,' Mr. Bagot-will you explain it to me?"

THESE VARIOUS DEVELOPMENTS, along with the sudden arrival in Philadelphia of the mysterious gentleman "Albert St. Goar," didn't go unnoticed by Stafford Shrikesdale and his sons. Yet the four quarreled bitterly as to what steps to take with the fraudulent heir; and whether, even after so many months, he might not be Roland after all-their cousin, as Lyle stubbornly argued, though transformed.

("Ident.i.ty is not that ambiguous," Bertram said. "A man is either the man he was born-or he is not." "But if we make a mistake?" Lyle said. "And if the mistake is fatal?") Having been present at one of Roland's feats of memory, Stafford Shrikesdale claimed in disgust that the entire performance was fabricated; very well done, to be sure, the way a professional actor might do it-but fabricated nonetheless. Willard, however, was present on another occasion, when, in a state of trance, perspiration streaming down his face and his eyes rolled whitely upward, Roland recited a good deal of the Book of Proverbs; and Willard confessed to being powerfully moved . . . and almost persuaded, for a few hours, that Roland was Roland. Then again, Bertram's arguments for fraud were extremely convincing; and Aunt Anna Emery was easily duped; and, from time to time, even Lyle grew doubtful of his position, and spoke gravely of the seriousness of the crime if Roland turned out not to be Roland . . . "For might this not mean," he asked, "that the real Roland, our cousin, has been murdered?"

St. Goar, they believed, was a clue to the puzzle, since no one seemed to know anything about him, except Roland. So they hired a private investigator, Mr. Gaston Bullock Means, of the William J. Burns National Detective Agency (which frequently did cla.s.sified work for the Justice Department in Washington); but Means, after an exhaustive ten months' investigation, claimed that he could find no information about St. Goar at all-not even a birth record, or a history of employment.

"If ever a man does not exist," Means reported, "-it is 'Albert St. Goar.'"

THE SHRIKESDALES OBSERVED that Roland remained Roland when he was in company; but that, at other times, he was beginning to grow negligent.

For instance, he was glimpsed drinking now and then.

For instance, he was glimpsed smoking-both cigarettes and cigars.

For instance, he, or someone closely resembling him, was rumored to have visited a South Philadelphia bordello upon several occasions; and to have identified himself to the madam as "Christopher."

For instance, in Newport, in August, aboard the family yacht Albatross, Roland fell by accident over the side into fifteen feet of water; yet, to the amazement of all, he swam easily and confidently to safety, before he could be rescued-Roland, who had never before swum a single stroke in his entire life, and had been, since boyhood, terrified of water! ("Where did you learn to swim so beautifully?" his relatives asked him; and Roland said, somewhat evasively, "I think it must have been out West-I really don't remember.") That same month, in Newport, having inveigled the unsuspecting Roland into walking with them along the beach, his cousins reminded him of how very much, as a boy, he had enjoyed wrestling with them in the sand . . . wrestling with Bertram most of all . . . surely he remembered? "I'm afraid I don't remember anything of the kind," Roland said carefully, edging away. "But you must remember, cousin," Bertram said, following him, "-you were the one who always wanted to play!" Lyle and Willard laughed as Bertram pretended to stalk Roland. It was a sunny windy day, an afternoon of boyish high spirits and levity; a sumptuous two-hour luncheon behind, and a yet more sumptuous four-hour dinner scheduled for the evening. "Now you know you did, you know," Bertram said in a high-pitched child's voice, feinting in Roland's direction, "-you know you were the one! Always springing on us from behind, and grabbing us in a wrestling hold, and rolling and tumbling about in the dirt, in the sand, in the briars-why, little Roland was quite a terror, in his youth." "This I find difficult to believe," Roland said nervously. He was panting; agitated; so very warm, he removed his Panama hat for a moment, to wipe his damp brow. "'This I find difficult to believe!'-what a fussy old nanny we've become, afraid to get our linen soiled!" Bertram said, baring his teeth in a grin. As Willard and Lyle looked on, amused, smoking their cigars, Bertram sprang at Roland; seized him crudely about the head and shoulders, in a "hammer" lock; yet, within seconds, before anyone quite realized what happened, Bertram was himself thrown down flat on the sand-with such violence, the breath was knocked out of him, and, for several minutes, he lay as one dead.

As Lyle and Willard crouched over him, trying to rouse him, poor Roland hovered about, wringing his hands and apologizing. He hadn't known such a thing could happen, he claimed. Why, he didn't even know what had happened-he was quite innocent of any intent to harm. Bertram tried to sit up, clutching at his head. His trim brown moustache was sprinkled with sand and his skin had gone ashen. As his brothers comforted him, he began to vomit; choked; coughed spasmodically; vomited again-a thin white substance, like gruel; all the while poor Roland hovered nearby, apologizing, and insisting that he didn't know what on earth had happened. Their own expressions somber and blank, Lyle and Willard eyed Roland without comment: noting how, for all his agitation, he yet held himself in a slight defensive crouch, his sinewy legs bent at the knee; noted how muscular his shoulders suddenly appeared-how the cords in his beefy neck stood out-how, through a slash in his shirt, dark curly hairs bristled like steel wool. His straw hat had been knocked off in the scuffle and without it the curious breadth and squareness of his forehead were p.r.o.nounced. Above all, his eyes-so steely-cold, darting from face to face, sobering to see.

"I must have learned to defend myself out West, you know," Roland said earnestly, "-and forgotten all about it, in my illness. Do forgive me, Cousin Bertram!"

BUT BERTRAM WAS not to forgive; still less was Bertram likely to forget.

When, after Labor Day, the Shrikesdales prepared to depart Newport, Bertram chanced to brush near Roland (who was busying himself with preparations for his mother's traveling comfort), and said in a lowered, furious voice: "You lead a charmed life, cousin!-but only so long as Anna Emery lives."

For a half second it seemed that Roland might err, in looking his accuser full in the face, and speaking too abruptly; then, with impeccable restraint-of the sort, indeed, that caused St. Goar so to admire him-he simply said, in Roland's very voice: "But my mother, you know, is still young-just at the start of her eighth decade. If G.o.d is just she will outlive us all!"

"PATHeTIQUE"

The eighth of December 1916. A benefit recital for the United Church Fund of Vanderpoel, New York, held in the newly built Frick Hall on the campus of the Vanderpoel Academy for Boys. The evening has been sold out; an audience of more than five hundred people has been warmly enthusiastic; and now as the final item on the programme the Vanderpoel student Darian Licht, sixteen, who has accompanied most of the soloists this evening-a violinist, a mezzosoprano, an Irish tenor and a string trio-is playing the first movement of Beethoven's Sonata no. 8 in C minor, popularly known as the "Pathetique." How childlike the pianist appears, seated at the keyboard of the great gleaming Steinway, his body taut as a coiled spring, fair brown hair in soft flamelike wings, his narrow, long-jawed face putty-colored in the bright stage lights-yet how powerful his hands on the keyboard, as if he were entranced, mesmerized by the music he himself is creating.

The end of childhood. Which I'd imagined in my vanity had ended years before.

Because the Beethoven sonata is too long and too demanding for this audience, Darian is playing a foreshortened version worked out with Professor Hermann. "It is never wise to test the limits of the music lover's love of music," the elder German has warned Darian, "-especially at the very end of a musical evening." Each movement of the great sonata is represented, yet each has been ingeniously edited; though Adolf Hermann is present in the audience this evening, no doubt hunched forward in his seat, staring at his pupil and listening with painful concentration, pinp.r.i.c.ks of oily sweat glistening on his fleshy face, Darian plays as if he's entirely alone. In this stark brightly lighted place the figure of his lost mother Sophie will not appear.

Darian Licht. A fifth-form boy who has established for himself a reputation for independence, aloofness, arrogance. His cla.s.smates regard him as they might an adult set in their midst: with grudging respect yet without warmth. Though he has made a few friends-he believes. Misfits like himself, disfigured by eccentric talents (for chess, for poetry, for advanced math, for long-distance running) as by acne. Darian knows from his sister Esther's letters that he's disappointed their father by standing only twelfth in his cla.s.s of ninety boys and by having failed to "cultivate" important friends like his suitemate Roddy Sewall. How much more disappointed Father would be, how angry, if he knew that Darian neglected his academic studies because he cared only for music; and that Darian had made no effort at all to befriend Roddy or any of the rich men's sons. In fact it's Darian who avoids Roddy as Roddy lingers in their common room as the bell sounds for meals. (In the dining hall the older boys' talk is of war: the United States should declare war against Germany, it's as Roosevelt says, pacifists are just cowards, their hope is that fighting won't end before they can get to it.) Strange that Darian Licht should snub rich boys. The rumor is, Darian's tuition hasn't been paid for the fall semester. Not a penny paid of course for the spring semester. Headmaster Meech called Darian into his office to speak with him in confidence, taking care not to embarra.s.s the boy (for Meech remembers with pride the extraordinary guest sermon Abraham Licht made in the chapel and the hint he'd given of one day endowing a trust fund for the school); delicately he asked Darian if he knew anything of his father's financial situation, for the school had emergency funds which might be tapped if necessary. No I don't. I don't know. I'm sorry, sir. May I be excused, sir. I know nothing of my father's private life.

Esther wrote to Darian, and sometimes Katrina added a postscript. Every few months, Millie sent a postcard that made Darian's heart leap with antic.i.p.ation and dread; for Millie's gay, slanted handwriting was a riddle to record, and sometimes all Darian could be certain of were Dearest Darian and Love, your sister Millie. Abraham Licht was living now in Philadelphia but had an additional post office box in Camden, New Jersey, across the river. From Esther, Darian learned the surprising news that their brother Harwood was back East-but where he was living, whether he was reunited with Father, wasn't clear.

Of Thurston there was never any news. He'd traveled to South America "on business" and hadn't returned, so far as Darian and Esther knew; nor was there word of him; yet how strangely Abraham Licht deflected questions about his eldest son with a shrug of his shoulder. Thurston? Who? Ah yes. But no. So much time had pa.s.sed since Darian had last seen Thurston, he'd begun to wonder if his tall fair handsome genial brother had been . . . a dream of his. A vivid heartrending phrase of music.

It was hours after the awkward meeting with Headmaster Meech that the shame of it hit Darian like a wave. His father hadn't paid his tuition! Making of me a beggar. A criminal accomplice. He'd been on his way to the chapel to play organ and turned at once and ran back to the headmaster's residence to ask, breathless, if there was something he might do to repay the money he owed? Work in the dining hall, or on the school grounds? The older man regarded him with pity and exasperation. "You must know by now, Darian, that such a thing is hardly in the Vanderpoel tradition. You would be embarra.s.sing your cla.s.smates, too." Beyond Headmaster Meech's grave, grizzled head were busts of Shakespeare and Milton in stark, poreless white with blank white eyeb.a.l.l.s and utterly serene expressions. The Vanderpoel insignia, what appeared to be a flaming scepter, was engraved on a bronze plaque above the script Monumentum aere perennius, the school motto. Darian wondered what it might mean to these long-deceased men, to know that in some way incalculable to them they'd become immortal; even as, in the most obvious way, they were simply . . . gone. Dr. Meech was about to send Darian away when a thought struck him: the upcoming recital. The United Church Fund would be using Frick Hall, though the evening was not under the auspices of the Academy; perhaps if Darian would like to partic.i.p.ate in the recital, there might even be a modest fee involved. "Yes?" Darian said hopefully. "I would like that very much, Dr. Meech." He'd spoken impulsively, and would have time afterward-days, weeks-to wonder if he'd done the right thing. To perform in public, when his musical abilities seemed to him so raw, so far short of perfection, so often a source of extreme anguish to him . . . surely this was a mistake? He'd been sleepless with the prospect of stage fright.

His fee for the evening, as accompanist and soloist, would be $35.

Adolf Hermann was both bemused and annoyed that Darian was partic.i.p.ating in the recital. "They asked me first-of course. They have hired me, if 'hire' is the adequate term, from time to time for this event." Professor Hermann paused, fixing Darian with a gloomy stare. A sickened thought came to Darian-was his piano teacher resentful of him? "These are not serious music lovers, these Americans. You must beware their influence. They are 'nice' people-seemingly. They will want 'nice' music from you. They will pay you-as modestly as they dare. In return, all they will take from you is your soul."

Darian said, with a smile, "I've never earned thirty-five dollars in my life, Professor Hermann. It isn't much but-there it is! And I'll be given a 'cold supper' afterward at the Frick residence in the city, in the company of the other performers." And I will invite my father to the concert. And Millie, and Esther, and Katrina. My family!

Professor Hermann muttered that, as Darian Licht was his protege, he hoped that Darian would not sell himself cheaply to such people who knew nothing of music and so did not deserve music. For long minutes the elder man spoke ponderously, vehemently, as Darian sat with increasing restlessness at the piano, his fingers twitching to strike the yellowed keys of the old, stained, yet still beautifully resonant Bsendorser. What did he, a sixteen-year-old, care of an old man's fretting, when there was music to be played? And what music: Beethoven's "Pathetique." He'd been preparing it for weeks and had only just begun to feel he was gaining ground. But Professor Hermann, wiping his damp face, persisted in speaking of the "tragical" situation in Europe which might well poison the entire civilized world; the insane belligerence of the great German nation against weaker, neutral nations; the distressing nature of anti-German sentiment in the States-"For all Germans, it seems, are now barbarians and huns." It was difficult for Darian to determine, listening to his piano teacher's ranting, in a heavily inflected Teutonic accent, whether the man's rage against Vanderpoel citizens was based on their presumed dislike of him as a possible traitor in their midst, or his dislike of them, as Christian bigots. To all this Darian murmured a faint a.s.sent, while knowing he wouldn't change his mind about playing in the recital.

My music I will play for its own sake and not for others' ears.

For music is born by way of our fingertips, it pa.s.ses through us. We don't hear, we overhear.

"Darian, you must have your pride," Professor Hermann said, laying a heavy hand on Darian's shoulder as he too often did, with a wheezing, humid breath against the boy's face. "We must have our pride-for you are Adolf Hermann's pupil. Of all things, don't sell yourself cheaply!"