Dynasty of Death, Page 2

  The Common, which he was approaching, was an irregular oval. Three-quarters of its sides were filled with the crouching homes of workingmen. The dim lights in their windows were like the eyes of waiting wolves. The last quarter of the rim of the Common was occupied by the cotton mill, where most of the men, many of the women, and too many of the children worked. Over the Common, which was ill-kept and muddy and sunken and almost bare, and which during rains accumulated stagnant water, and over the drab old houses, hung an air stifled and gaunt and desolate. Over this place the moon was not so bright, and the earth was not breathing out its fertility. There was only the smell of ashes and decay and hunger and cold hearths and dust and boiling cabbage.

  He passed behind the house, came to the third one. He opened the gate of the barren little yard, closed it. There was a light in the kitchen, and a reflection of firelight. He pushed open the kitchen door. His mother, her heavy woolen skirt pinned back over her red flannel petticoat, her black curls crisp and bright under the frills of her cotton mob cap, was bending over the fire. Her sleeves were rolled up, and showed her arms, strong, plump and white. The firelight, leaping, profiled a face vigorous and unsentimental, handsome with the hardy resolution of the peasant. She stirred something in an iron pot, then swung it back over the fire. A cradle stood to one side, bathed in firelight, and in it a baby held up its fat fingers to view them against the flame. The wooden floor was scrubbed and bare, and the fire danced on polished andirons and on the few strictly utilitarian pieces of furniture. On one side of the fire a large, serious-faced, apple-cheeked boy of thirteen or so sat upright on the settle, reading with an air of profound concentration. A little girl of perhaps five sat on the floor at his feet, playing with a cloth doll. The table, with its red cover, was set for the meal with thick plates and pewter utensils. The iron kettle was singing on the fire, the copper vessels hanging on the walls winked like struck gold in a sudden flare-up of flame.

  Mrs. Barbour lit several tallow candles on the mantelpiece with a taper. She was muttering to herself; she caught sight of Martin, and an irate light flashed into her eyes, fine eyes, black and sparkling and not too amiable.

  “Ah, there, my lad, comin’ home at all hours!” she exclaimed. “Look at you, soakin’ with the fog! Well, don’t stand there gawpin’ like a zany. Take off your boots and get you ready for tea.”

  There was vigor and vitality in her loud, upbraiding voice, but Martin had the impression that all this was not concerned with him at all. He felt that her unusual excitement (for he rarely returned from school much before this hour) was due to something else entirely, and that he had been merely a suddenly opening channel through which the force of her agitation might pour. Yet, he also felt that her agitation was not without pleasure and zest. She seized the black iron pot again and stirred it mightily in her vigorous bemusement, and the room steamed with the odors of onions, kidneys and good rich beef simmering in a brown gravy. Martin’s nostrils twitched a little; he pulled off his muddy boots and neatly laid them on the hearth. He had to step between his mother and his brother, Ernest. The latter lifted his eyes so slowly that the act seemed full of languor, but in reality it was the slowness of immense power and enormous coldness. He regarded Martin for a long moment, and during this moment his heavy mouth, sullen and deliberate, moved ever so slightly into a carved line of indifferent contempt.

  “When are you going to give up this school foolishness?” he asked. His voice was unusually mature, the voice of one who already knows himself and his capacities.

  “Not ever,” replied Martin softly, staring into the fire and rubbing his hands. He hated Ernest, as he knew Ernest hated him. Ten years later he would also pity Ernest, but now his hatred made his gorge rise, made his delicate lips tremble and his hands quiver. He knew Ernest despised him, and knew why he despised him. Young though he was, he had such clarity of vision that he could understand why his enemies could feel so toward him.

  Ernest shrugged, shifted his big feet, and continued to contemplate his younger brother. The contemplation was full of cold curiosity, indifference and calculation.

  “‘Not ever,’” he mocked. “‘Not ever.’ Not ever being any good, or doing anything, or getting anywhere. Just lazing over books. How long do you think Pa’s going to keep you here, not worth your bread?”

  “Now, Ernest, you leave Martin alone,” interrupted Mrs. Barbour. But she spoke mechanically. Her face showed no signs of Ernest’s words having gone beyond her outer ear; it remained preoccupied and thoughtful. Her black brows were drawn together in a knotted line over her eyes. Tugging abstractedly again at the kettle, she burnt her hand, muttered fiercely, but without a change in her expression. Martin looked alertly at his mother, then glanced at Ernest. But there was no answer on Ernest’s face; only his very light gray eyes glowed with hostility.

  “You are a great lad,” went on Ernest slowly and quietly, each word forming like ice on his heavy lips. “You know how to read and cipher and write a good hand. What more do you want? What can you ever be, with your puling ways and your puny arms? Nothing but a clerk to the squire or the solicitor. But what you can do, you can do.”

  Martin regarded him in a short silence. This was an old story between the two boys. Usually he ignored Ernest’s taunts, merely smiling quietly, shrugging a little, turning away. But tonight something of his mother’s suppressed excitement mysteriously communicated itself to him, and his sudden smile was wild and white, and his large blue eyes, opening widely, blazed.

  “But I don’t want to be like you,” he said in a loud clear voice. “Not ever like you, Ernest. That’s why I keep on going to school—so I’ll never be like you, thinking of money, and getting on in the world, and kicking other people, and snatching pennies. I couldn’t bear being like you. I’d rather die.”

  This show of spirit was so unprecedented, so remarkable, that Mrs. Barbour was jolted from her hot abstraction, and she turned upon her younger son an eye of complete astonishment.

  “What’s that?” she muttered, then in a louder, harsher voice: “What’s all this? Quarrelin’ again, you two? I’ll knock your two heads together!” She followed up this promise by cuffing Ernest suddenly and vigorously, almost knocking him from the settle, and following up this blow by boxing Martin on the ear with false energy. Only he knew the quick softening of the blow, so that it was barely a slap, but he dodged with extraordinary convincingness. The little girl on the floor roared in sympathy, the baby in the cradle screamed. A black cat, heretofore unseen in the chimney corner, came forth arching and spitting in the uproar.

  “As if I haven’t enough to think about without you two!” shouted Mrs. Barbour, panting, swinging her short white arms threateningly. “Another word, and out you’ll both go, and sing for your suppers! You, Ernest, bring me in some more coal, and quick about it. You, Martin, pick up the baby and quiet her, mind, after waking her up! Quick now. And you, Florabelle, stop that yelpin’ or I’ll give you a clout you’ll remember all your life!”

  She glared at them all, her teeth glittering between her rich red lips, her white bosom, more exposed than was usual with the discreet wives of the laboring class, rising and falling passionately. A few more black curls bounced out from under the frills of her cap and framed her warm red cheeks. Smarting though they were, her two sons stared at her peasant handsomeness with open admiration. She was well aware of their admiration, for she was young and discerning, and tried to mask her familiar pleasure with renewed shoutings and threats. When they backed away from her cautiously, she bit her lips to hide a smile, and returned to her cooking in restored good humor, bridling not a little. She tossed her head, muttered, clanged her iron spoon against the sides of the iron vessel.

  Growling under his breath, Ernest picked up the scuttle and went out of the room. Martin lifted the baby, Dorcas, from her crib and sat down in the corner of the settle, which was still warm from Ernest’s body. The baby was his darling, his plaything; he loved her very much. He perched
her expertly on his thin knee with all the tenderness of a mother, crooning to her wordlessly. She was very much like himself, small-boned and delicate, with a tiny three-cornered face and large blue eyes and soft light hair. She felt his love and nestled to him, damp as she was, and contentedly sucked her thumb. But her eyes were turned upward, shining, fixed upon him. He cuddled the little body against the curve of himself, smiling downwards. A sweetness enveloped the two children like a soft aura. Observing them through the corner of her eye, Hilda’s broad face softened, but she felt a twinge. Martin was her favorite, though she would have stoutly denied it. There was a sultry passion in her love for him. She turned to the table and began to slice coarse bread with a tremendous knife. She resumed her muttering, but louder now, for Martin’s benefit. He heard, but continued to smile at the baby, without, however, missing a word.

  “You two!” she growled. “Never a minute’s peace. As if a body hasn’t enough to worry about. Fightin’ all the time, like two cockerels. I’ll be splittin’ your heads, mark my words. There’s an end to patience. You shouldn’t listen to Ernest. All he thinks of is guns and gunpowder, and the like, and don’t read anythin’ but about guns and such. Like your Pa.”

  She paused. “Yes, I know,” said Martin softly, still smiling at the baby and pursing his lips at her.

  Hilda shrugged, set down a pitcher of milk with unnecessary vigor. “You know,” she mimicked. “But that don’t keep you from fightin’ with him. Not a thimble of sense in you, Martin. Ernest is a born fighter, but you ain’t. You—I always thought you’d be a gentleman. Well, no, I don’t suppose you could ever really be a gentleman; that’d be tryin’ to rise above your station. But you could at least have gentlemanlike ways. A lad with ways like a gentleman can go far in gentry’s houses, writin’ letters and keepin’ books. Steward. I always wanted you to be a steward.” She stared at him wistfully, the knife in her hand, her mouth open like a child’s. Still he did not look at her; he was examining the baby’s hands with touching intentness. He kissed the pale little cheek with infinite love.

  “Ugh!” said Hilda harshly, turning to her cupboard and snatching cups from it. “Might as well talk to the cat!”

  “I’m sorry, Ma,” said Martin gently, turning his face to her. “I’m listening.”

  She pouted, blinked, tossed her head again with spirit. “That’s all very well,” she said crossly, pettishly, with a childlike air that even her husband found irresistible. “I try to talk to you, and get the side of your face. And us goin’ to America before summer!”

  It was out now, and her face shone with excited smiles and her eyes flashed and glittered. The air seemed to crackle about her; the fire rose and roared up the chimney in a rush of yellow sparks and smoke. Martin paled, his expression becoming blank as he regarded his mother intently.

  “America,” he whispered. He moistened lips that all at once were dry and sick. She nodded her head with quick delight, swooped back to the fire and fell down upon the settle beside him, her face sparkling and dimpling with glee. Her breath blew itself explosively on his cheek, almost with ecstasy. She waited for what he would say with eager impatience.

  But he did not say anything; for a long time he fixed his large blue eyes upon her face expressionlessly. She continued to wait, and as she did so she began to frown a little, a small size of white flesh rising between her black brows. Her smile began to fade, her lips to open and drop so that her teeth, two small rows of them, showed between them. Her eyes blinked. Then her cheeks reddened as the little boy averted his head and carefully pushed backwards on the settle, away from him, his brother’s book. The title flickered in the firelight: “The Origin, Manufacture and Use of Firearms and Explosives.” It was an old book, quaintly worded on thick yellow paper with browned edges, and the cover, embellished with curlicues and faded gilt, was thick and dog-eared. After pushing aside the book, Martin stared at it blindly.

  “Well!” cried Hilda, and pushed him vigorously with her clenched hand. She flounced upon the seat. “Haven’t you anythin’ to say, you young calf?”

  Slowly, very slowly, Martin shook his head. Tears of misery pushed themselves between his thick fair lashes. He continued to shake his head. Hilda stared at him, dumfounded, her jaw dropping. “Eh,” she muttered. She put her hand uncertainly to her mob cap, tucked under the escaped curls. Then an irate light flashed into her eyes and her cheeks crimsoned.

  “What a daft little dolt it is!” she exclaimed, offended and bewildered. She sprang to her feet, very lightly in spite of her plumpness, and stirred the pot vigorously. The child Florabelle, sensing her mother’s fury, cautiously removed still farther into the chimney corner and peered out from that shelter. Her thick flaxen braids fell over her rosy cheeks and dangled before her, so that the shadow of them on the wall was like hanging ropes.

  Hilda was greatly hurt. Her husband was of a dark and sullen disposition, not given to enthusiasms, warm delights and jovial excitements. Ernest was stolid, and contemptuous of hysterias. The two little girls did not count with the zestful Hilda. But Martin was her love, her sympathizer, the one who never failed her in tenderness, gentle enthusiasm, sweetness and understanding. Therefore, his lack of response to her tremendous news not only bewildered her, but filled her with pettish and depressed resentment. She took it out on him by emphasizing the fact that after all they were adult mother and insignificant child, and ordered him sharply to put the baby down and stir the fire, and pull up his father’s chair. She felt sore and betrayed.

  Still silent, Martin placed the baby in her crib; the child immediately wailed her disappointment. Hilda shouted at her, and both Dorcas and Martin shrank. Florabelle smirked, pleased, in her shelter. She did not like Martin and enjoyed seeing him in disfavor. When her small, shrewd blue eyes caught the firelit glitter of tears on his cheeks, she regarded them with pleasure, a pleasure almost voluptuous.

  Martin lifted his head and looked at his mother gravely. He felt very sorry for her, regretful that he had failed her. He began to speak, but before he could say a word Ernest entered the room, sulkily lugging the scuttle. But his sulkiness lightened alertly as he advanced toward the fire; he felt the tension in the air. Hilda glanced crossly at him over her shoulder.

  “Ernest,” she said, “we be going to America come summer.”

  Ernest stood, petrified, the scuttle hanging on his hand. His impassive face broke into an expression of amazement, and then, sudden excitement and joy. This mobile and unusual expressiveness surprised Hilda, and she stared at him, diverted, as he turned to her and approached her.

  “America!” he cried, his slowness to believe anything at all making his voice rough and hard.

  “Yes,” replied Hilda grudgingly. She resented this obvious excitement in Ernest because she had expected it from Martin. She shrugged her shoulders; all at once her news became flat, drab and of no importance. It was nothing to her that Ernest was stirred and interested; her audience in the orchestra had failed her, and she did not care for the gallery. She was still sore inside.

  Ernest clapped his hands, once and shortly. It was a convulsive gesture, alien to his nature, and therefore the more remarkable. It had an explosive sound, decisive and grim, as if something in him, which had waited since his birth, went on a march toward a predestined place. He turned to the fire without another word, but he rubbed his hands together in the light of the red and yellow flames, and again the gesture was convulsive and tense, without enjoyment of the physical warmth. His face, too, was tense, and had in it a sort of dark gloating, and his eyes glowed with an almost incandescent light. Then a thought occurred to him, the gloating disappeared, the gleam in his eyes dimmed. He turned abruptly to his mother, scowling slightly.

  “Ma, it’s all settled? It’s just not one of your—it’s just not talk, is it? We are to go? Pa says so?”

  Hilda swung on him, scarlet with anger. “So, my son calls me a liar, does he?” she screamed. She had a pewter ladle in her hand and she flung it a
t him, her breath exploding past her lips in a long “whew!” Ernest, expert in these matters, dodged and the ladle smashed into the fire. His expression dark, and now becoming brooding, he picked up the utensil with the aid of the tongs, and, preoccupied, put it on the table. His heavy lips were out-thrust, his brow scowling, his movements mechanical. It was plain that his thoughts were not concerned with Hilda’s childish antics, not in the least; his whole concern was whether her story could be relied upon. He had had too many experiences with tales born of her hopes and effervescence, and he remembered, too keenly, his disappointments and violent readjustments. He did not want to be caught again.

  As if her demonstration against him had been some unimportant and expected act of nature, he turned to her again, impassive once more, but intent.

  “It’s all settled?” he repeated insistently. “Pa says so?”

  Hilda, who had watched him, frustrated and furious, came to life with violence. She stamped her foot, snorted, tossed her head until the curls flew.

  “Am I a child?” she shrieked. “Am I a liar, in my own house, before my own brats? If I am, I’m addled! Send me to Bedlam, chain me up, call the beadle—!” Martin, on the settle, paled, Florabelle whimpered, the baby cried.

  But Ernest smiled faintly. He regarded his mother for a long moment with a sort of wry and indulgent amusement. The others might shrink before her tantrums, be terrified, daunted or appalled. But not Ernest. He waited. Hilda stopped, glared at him, the whites of her eyes blazing in the mingled fire- and candlelight. Then, her own eyes falling before the calm and impassive and waiting eyes of her elder son, she broke into an oath, stamped madly upon the rocker of the wailing baby’s cradle so that it began to rock crazily. Instantly the baby became soundless with terror. Florabelle put her thumb in her mouth and sucked it frenziedly, as she always did in moments of stress. Martin caught the hood of the wooden cradle, slowed down its wild rockings, and reduced the motion to one soothing and protective. He shivered a little. Then Ernest, shrugging with a sort of contemptuous resignation, began to whistle softly as he turned from his infuriated mother. But he scowled with uncertainty and disappointment.