Part 27 (2/2)
ON THE SUBJECT of ”Roland Shrikesdale III”-Millie would like to speak with Abraham Licht seriously, for is it true that a private detective has been hired? And what is this, Anna Emery Shrikesdale is urging Roland and Matilde to . . . become a romantic couple?
Initially, Abraham Licht refuses to discuss the matter.
Not for Matilde to worry about, he says.
Nor even for overly inquisitive Millicent.
Then, next day, in an ebullient mood following a seemingly profitable game of poker at the most exclusive gentlemen's club in Philadelphia, to which Albert St. Goar has recently been admitted, Abraham Licht confides to Millie that, yes, there was a detective making inquiries after St. Goar some months ago; and after Harwood as well; and no doubt after her. ”But as my own informants have a.s.sured me, this man, 'Gaston Bullock Means' of the Burns Detective Agency, has given up the case as hopeless. He is of no threat.”
”No threat! If old Stafford Shrikesdale and his sons suspect Harwood, they suspect him; and they suspect us. We may be in danger.”
”Danger, Millie? Never.”
”Father, please. You underestimate our enemies.”
”In such matters, it's as well to think of 'enemies' as 'accomplices' in a unified effort. I'm well aware of Stafford Shrikesdale's suspicion of Roland, and of Bertram, Willard, Lyle-and others. But they're stymied, you see. They don't dare accuse 'Roland'-they would never initiate a lawsuit. Philadelphia is too proper, my dear, for such scandal. And you might, you know, even 'marry' Harwood-I mean, Roland. To consolidate our history, so to speak.”
”'Marry'! My own brother! That brute! That-murderer!”
”Millicent! Hus.h.!.+”
This time, Abraham Licht brings his fist down hard on the table, and cups, saucers and silverware go flying.
Millie persists daringly, ”He is a murderer. Twice over. You know, and I know. He killed that poor woman in Atlantic City, for which Thurston was blamed; and he killed Roland Shrikesdale III-obviously. Yet you seem to forgive him. You seem not to remember.”
”Memory is not an American predilection. Where it cripples action, it's wise to forgo the past. For what is the past but-”
”'The graveyard of Future.' Yes. But it may be a blueprint of Future, too. For people repeat themselves in action; a man who murders once may murder twice, and a man who murders twice may murder a third time. It will be on your head, Father, if-”
”Millie, I don't at all like your tone. This isn't a Broadway melodrama, that you can stand there, bristly as one of those little yapping Pomeranians the Philadelphia ladies adore, and speak to your father so-arrogantly. In so masculine a style. What if someone overheard? We must always a.s.sume that our own servants may be spies in the hire of the Shrikesdales; just as one or two of theirs are spies of Albert St. Goar.”
”Father, really? Is that so?” Millie smiles, for this is news. ”Who is it? And since when?”
”Since the day it became clear to me, seeing Gaston Bullock Means in Philadelphia, with dyed hair and moustache, that the Shrikesdales were in pursuit. Months ago. Exactly who, which of the male servants, you needn't know; except to bear in mind that in the matter of spying and bribing, you must always hire men, not women. For a man-any man-is open to hire; but even a sensible woman may be handicapped by loyalty.”
At this, Millie laughs; goes away shaking her head, and laughing; as if the original subject of their conversation however grave, worrisome, profound has been quite banished by Abraham Licht's good humor.
For perhaps Father is wisest after all. Perhaps we would all do well simply to trust in him.
What an attractive couple!-and so unexpected.
Yet both seem shy of each other. Even she.
Aloof with other young men yet agreeably, modestly shy with Roland. Surely that's a sign?
Only a quiet young woman could appeal to Roland. The more a young woman ”charms”-the more terrified he is, and retreats like a turtle into its sh.e.l.l.
Poor boy. All he's endured. So brave. So good. Anna Emery prays for him even now, you know-”That he marry, and have children, and become one of us.”
It seems that Matilde St. Goar and Roland Shrikesdale III are continually being thrown into each other's company. By the design of Philadelphia dowagers in Anna Emery's circle, as well as the enterprising Anna Emery herself; she's one of those older women who under the guise of self-effacing solicitude possess a will stronger than a stallion's. One day after Anna Emery's repeated invitations, Matilde reluctantly agrees to accompany mother and son on a drive along the Delaware River north into Bucks County, that they might all ”rejoice in the beauty of fresh air and nature”-for it's a gloriously bright blue Sunday in winter, and much of the world fresh-coated in snow; and Roland has only just acquired a remarkable new imported car, a lemon-yellow Peugeot sedan with steel-spoked wheels, mahogany fixtures and cream-colored leather interior. Of this expensive car, Anna Emery herself is rather girlishly vain-”It quite suits Roland, doesn't it? So handsome.”
Matilde is impressed, that Roland does indeed look unusually fit-for Roland-in a belted motoring coat of Scottish brown tweed and a brown leather cap with goggles and chin straps and gauntlets that give him a military air; even Anna Emery, near-blind, near-deaf, with a myriad of medical complaints and a perpetual head cold, looks quite striking in furs, seated plumb in the center of the Peugeot's backseat. And here beside young Shrikesdale in a splendid ermine coat of her own with matching hat and m.u.f.fler, a Christmas gift from her father, is Matilde St. Goar with ivory-pale skin and small fixed smile . . . having very few words to utter to Roland, as he has few to utter to her, for most of the two-hour excursion.
Is Mrs. Shrikesdale disappointed, that the ”young lovers” are so stiff with each other? So reluctant, it seems, even to look at each other, even as she chatters, chatters, chatters to the backs of their heads? If so, she disguises it; she's a well-bred, that's to say stoical woman; a Philadelphia lady. Only when Roland swings back into the city to bring Matilde home to Rittenhouse Square, in the late afternoon, does Anna Emery murmur, ”I had thought the day was beautiful, and so promising . . . ,” but neither Roland nor Matilde makes a reply.
At the St. Goar residence on the northeast corner of the elegant square, Roland parks the Peugeot at the curb and politely escorts Matilde into her building. Propriety dictates that he should take her by the elbow, but Matilde shudders at his touch. She says in an undertone, ”You must not, you know-please, Harwood.” In his low gravelly voice he says, ”'Must not' what?” She says, ”Do away with her. That poor well-intentioned silly old woman.” He laughs. He squeezes her arm between thumb and forefinger so forcefully that, through even the thickness of the ermine, she feels a jolt of pain. ”No need, I'll soon have power of attorney. Father so advises.”
Perhaps someone is watching in the opulent overheated foyer: Roland with a shy suitor's smile fumbles for Matilde's gloved hand, in a gesture of farewell. Yet again she shudders, and clumsily shrinks from him. ”Murderer!” she whispers. Baring his teeth around the ten-inch cigar her escort whispers in turn, ”n.i.g.g.e.r's wh.o.r.e!”
Sly little Mina slits her eyes, and Moira's breath grows short with the danger, but it's not to be avoided: haughty Matilde St. Goar in waves of gossamer white, pink-translucent pearls about her neck, must grant a dance to that tall cousin of Roland's with the angry bristling moustache and knowing eyes, Bertram. ”Bertie” to his friends-but the St. Goars are not his friends. I was sailing along on Moonlight Bay . . . singing a song . . . but neither Matilde nor her stiff dance-partner is listening to the words of the new, popular song for it's clear, Millie thinks, this man knows. And his breath is a dog's breath, hot and damp; and the nostrils of his aquiline nose quiver; and he says not a word to Matilde nor does Matilde say a word to him; yet in the dance, the two are locked together in understanding; an almost erotic bond.
The dance ends. The dancers step back from each other unsmiling.
Bertram Shrikesdale bows, murmuring, ”Thank you, Miss St. Goar, for a most enjoyable and edifying turn on the dance floor.”
Matilde St. Goar makes the barest semblance of a curtsy, murmuring, ”Thank you, Mr. Shrikesdale.”
AND YET MILLIE thinks afterward am I imagining it?
FOR ONE OF the hazards of The Game, she has come to realize, is that one may imagine too much. Or too little.
This morning at breakfast studying the hazy girl's face reflected in a table knife smeared with raspberry jam as Father, whistling a strain of Don Giovanni under his breath, rapidly skims columns of newsprint making pencil checks beside certain stock market listings. Abraham Licht is in one of his good, mysterious moods. He's been chuckling over the news that Henry Ford has leapt into the ”war profits” fray with plans to manufacture airplane motors, submarine equipment and other military items-”Having given up, it seems, on peace.” (Abraham Licht has never forgiven Henry Ford for his great success with the Model T and Model A automobiles, for a quarter century ago Abraham had hoped to manufacture a vehicle patented as the ”horseless quadricycle,” an open sleigh-like cha.s.sis with four-cycle engine and thin wobbly bicycle wheels; this effort, predating Millie's birth, she's heard of only elliptically, and thinks must have been very silly indeed. Bicycle wheels! Yet Abraham Licht firmly believes that Henry Ford cheated him of his rightful fortune, as of his rightful place in American history.) Millie says suddenly, as if she's only just now thought of it, ”You seem to be forgetting, Father, that you should be giving warning to Darian and Esther to expect a new stepmother soon. And you should bring them to Philadelphia to meet Eva, you know.”
”No, dear. I am not. Forgetting, I mean.”
Abraham Licht doesn't glance up but continues to make checks against stocks.
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