The Builders

"I'll see what I can do," he said, and wondered why the words had not worn threadbare.

"You mean you'll speak to Angelica?" Her relief rasped his nerves.

"Yes, I'll speak to Angelica."

"Don't you think it would be better to talk first to Mary?"

Before replying, he thought over this carefully. "Perhaps it would be better. Will you tell her that I'd like to see her immediately?"

She nodded and went out quickly, and it seemed to him that the door had barely closed before it opened again, and Mary came in with a brave step and a manner of unnatural alertness and buoyancy.

"David, do you really think we are going to have war?" It was an awkward evasion, but she had not learned either to evade or equivocate gracefully.

"I think we are about to break off diplomatic relations – "

"And that means war, doesn't it?"

"Who knows?" He made a gesture of impatience. "You are trying to climb up on the knees of the gods."

"I want to go," she replied breathlessly, "whether we have war or not, I want to go to France. Will you help me?"

"Of course I will help you."

"I mean will you give me money?"

"I will give you anything I've got. It isn't so much as it used to be."

"It will be enough for me. I want to go at once – next week – to-morrow."

He looked at her attentively, his grave, lucid eyes ranging thoughtfully over her strong, plain face, which had grown pale and haggard, over her boyish figure, which had grown thin and wasted.

"Mary," he said suddenly, "what is the trouble? Is it an honest desire for service or is it – the open door?"

For a minute she looked at him with frightened eyes; then breaking down utterly, she buried her face in her hands and turned from him. "Oh, David, I must get away! I cannot live unless I get away!"

"From Briarlay?"

"From Briarlay, but most of all – oh, most of all," she brought this out with passion, "from Alan!"

"Then you no longer care for him?"

Instead of answering his question, she dashed the tears from her eyes, and threw back her head with a gesture that reminded him of the old boyish Mary. "Will you let me go, David?"

"Not until you have told me the truth."

"But what is the truth?" She cried out, with sudden anger. "Do you suppose I am the kind of woman to talk of a man's being 'taken away,' as if he were a loaf of bread to be handed from one woman to another? If he had ever been what I believed him, do you imagine that any one could have 'taken' him? Is there any man on earth who could have taken me from Alan?"

"What has made the trouble, Mary?" He put the question very slowly, as if he were weighing every word that he uttered.

She flung the pretense aside as bravely as she had dashed the tears from her eyes. "Of course I have known all along that she was only flirting – that she was only playing the game – "

"Then you think that the young fool has been taking Angelica too seriously?"

At this her anger flashed out again. "Seriously enough to make me break my engagement!"

"All because he likes to read his plays to her?"

"All because he imagines her to be misunderstood and unhappy and ill-treated. Oh, David, will you never wake up? How much longer are you going to walk about the world in your sleep? No one has said a breath against Angelica – no one ever will – she isn't that kind. But unless you wish Alan to be ruined, you must send him away."

"Isn't she the one to send him away?"

"Then go to her. Go to her now, and tell her that she must do it to-day."

"Yes, I will tell her that." Even while he spoke the words which would have once wrung his heart, he was visited by that strange flashing sense of unreality, of the insignificance and transitoriness of Angelica's existence. Like Mrs. Timberlake's antiquated standards of virtue, she belonged to a world which might vanish while he watched it and leave him still surrounded by the substantial structure of life.

"Then tell her now. I hear her in the hall," said Mary brusquely, as she turned away.

"It is not likely that she will come in here," he answered, but the words were scarcely spoken before Angelica's silvery tones floated to them.

"David, may I come in? I have news for you." An instant later, as Mary went out, with her air of arrogant sincerity, a triumphant figure in grey velvet passed her in the doorway.

"I saw Robert and Cousin Charles a moment ago, and they told me that we had really broken off relations with Germany – "

She had not meant to linger over the news, but while she was speaking, he crossed the room and closed the door gently behind her.

"Don't you think now we have done all that is necessary?" she demanded triumphantly. "Cousin Charles says we have vindicated our honour at last."

Blackburn smiled slightly. The sense of unreality, which had been vague and fugitive a moment before, rolled over and enveloped him. "It is rather like refusing to bow to a man who has murdered one's wife."

A frown clouded her face. "Oh, I know all you men are hoping for war, even Alan, and you would think an artist would see things differently."

"Do you think Alan is hoping for it?"

"Aren't you every one except Cousin Charles? Robert told me just now that Virginia is beginning to boil over. He believes the country will force the President's hand. Oh, I wonder if the world will ever be sane and safe again?"

He was watching her so closely that he appeared to be drinking in the sound of her voice and the sight of her loveliness; yet never for an instant did he lose the feeling that she was as ephemeral as a tinted cloud or a perfume.

"Angelica," he said abruptly, "Mary has just told me that she has broken her engagement to Alan."

Tiny sparks leaped to her eyes. "Well, I suppose they wouldn't have been happy together – "

"Do you know why she did it?"

"Do I know why?" She looked at him inquiringly. "How could I know? She has not told me."

"Has Alan said anything to you about it?"

"Why, yes, he told me that she had broken it."

"And did he tell you why?"

She was becoming irritated by the cross examination. "No, why should he tell me? It is their affair, isn't it? Now, if that is all, I must go. Alan has brought the first act of a new play, and he wants my opinion."

The finishing thrust was like her, for she could be bold enough when she was sure of her weapons. Even now, though he knew her selfishness, it was incredible to him that she should be capable of destroying Mary's happiness when she could gain nothing by doing it. Of course if there were some advantage —

"Alan can wait," he said bluntly. "Angelica, can't you see that this has gone too far, this nonsense of Alan's?"

"This nonsense?" She raised her eyebrows. "Do you call his plays nonsense?"

"I call his plays humbug. What must stop is his folly about you. When Mary goes, you must send him away."

Her smile was like the sharp edge of a knife. "So it is Alan now? It was poor Roane only yesterday."

"It is poor Roane to-day as much as it ever was. But Alan must stop coming here."

"And why, if I may ask?"

"You cannot have understood, or you would have stopped it."

"I should have stopped what?"

He met her squarely. "Alan's infatuation – for he is infatuated, isn't he?"

"Do you mean with me?" Her indignant surprise almost convinced him of her ignorance. "Who has told you that?"

She was holding a muff of silver fox, and she gazed down at it, stroking the fur gently, while she waited for him to answer. He noticed that her long slender fingers – she had the hand as well as the figure of one of Botticelli's Graces – were perfectly steady.

"That was the reason that Mary broke her engagement," he responded.

"Did she tell you that?"

"Yes, she told me. She said she knew that you had not meant it – that Alan had lost his head – "

Her voice broke in suddenly with a gasp of outraged amazement. "And you ask me to send Alan away because you are jealous? You ask me this – after – after – " Her attitude of indignant virtue was so impressive that, for a moment, he found himself wondering if he had wronged her – if he had actually misunderstood and neglected her?

"You must see for yourself, Angelica, that this cannot go on."

"You dare to turn on me like this!" She cried out so clearly that he started and looked at the door in apprehension. "You dare to accuse me of ruining Mary's happiness – after all I have suffered – after all I have stood from you – "

As her voice rose in its piercing sweetness, it occurred to him for the first time that she might wish to be overheard, that she might be making this scene less for his personal benefit than for its effect upon an invisible audience. It was the only time he had ever known her to sacrifice her inherent fastidiousness, and descend to vulgar methods of warfare, and he was keen enough to infer that the prize must be tremendous to compensate for so evident a humiliation.

"I accuse you of nothing," he said, lowering his tone in the effort to reduce hers to a conversational level. "For your own sake, I ask you to be careful."

But he had unchained the lightning, and it flashed out to destroy him. "You dare to say this to me – you who refused to send Miss Meade away though I begged you to – "

"To send Miss Meade away?" The attack was so unexpected that he wavered before it. "What has Miss Meade to do with it?"

"You refused to send her away. You positively refused when I asked you."

"Yes, I refused. But Miss Meade is Letty's nurse. What has she to do with Mary and Alan?"

"Oh, are you still trying to deceive me?" For an instant he thought she was going to burst into tears. "You knew you were spending too much time in the nursery – that you went when Cousin Matty was not there – Alan heard you admit it – you knew that I wanted to stop it, and you refused – you insisted – "

But his anger had overpowered him now, and he caught her arm roughly in a passionate desire to silence the hideous sound of her words, to thrust back the horror that she was spreading on the air – out into the world and the daylight.

"Stop, Angelica, or – "

Suddenly, without warning, she shrieked aloud, a shriek that seemed to his ears to pierce, not only the ceiling, but the very roof of the house. As he stood there, still helplessly holding her arm, which had grown limp in his grasp, he became aware that the door opened quickly and Alan came into the room.

"I heard a cry – I thought – "

Angelica's eyes were closed, but at the sound of Alan's voice, she raised her lids and looked at him with a frightened and pleading gaze.

"I cried out. I am sorry," she said meekly. Without glancing at Blackburn, she straightened herself, and walked, with short, wavering steps, out of the room.

For a minute the two men faced each other in silence; then Alan made an impetuous gesture of indignation and followed Angelica.

CHAPTER V

The Choice

"Looks as if we were going to war, Blackburn." It was the beginning of April, and Robert Colfax had stopped on the steps of his club.

"It has looked that way for the last thirty-two months."

"Well, beware the anger – or isn't it the fury? – of the patient man. It has to come at last. We've been growling too long not to spring – and my only regret is that, as long as we're going to war, we didn't go soon enough to get into the fight. I'd like to have had a chance at potting a German. Every man in town is feeling like that to-day."

"You think it will be over before we get an army to France?"

"I haven't a doubt of it. It will be nothing more than a paper war to a finish."

A good many Virginians were thinking that way. Blackburn was not sure that he hadn't thought that way himself for the last two or three months. Everywhere he heard regrets that it was too late to have a share in the actual whipping of Germany – that we were only going to fight a decorous and inglorious war on paper. Suddenly, in a night, as it were, the war spirit in Virginia had flared out. There was not the emotional blaze – the flaming heat – older men said – of the Confederacy; but there was an ever-burning, insistent determination to destroy the roots of this evil black flower of Prussian autocracy. There was no hatred of Austria – little even of Turkey. The Prussian spirit was the foe of America and of the world; and it was against the Prussian spirit that the militant soul of Virginia was springing to arms. Men who had talked peace a few months before – who had commended the nation that was "too proud to fight," who had voted for the President because of the slogan "he kept us out of war" – had now swung round dramatically with the volte-face of the Government. The President had at last committed himself to a war policy, and all over the world Americans were awaiting the great word from Congress. In an hour personal interests had dissolved into an impersonal passion of service. In an hour opposing currents of thought had flowed into a single dominant purpose, and the President, who had once stood for a party, stood now for America.

For, in a broader vision, the spirit of Virginia was the spirit of all America. There were many, it is true, who had not, in the current phrase, begun to realize what war would mean to them; there were many who still doubted, or were indifferent, because the battle had not been fought at their doorstep; but as a whole the country stood determined, quiet, armed in righteousness, and waited for the great word from Congress.

And over the whole country, from North to South, from East to West, the one question never asked was, "What will America get out of it when it is over?"

"By Jove, if we do get into any actual fighting, I mean to go," said Robert, "I am not yet thirty."

Blackburn looked at him enviously. "It's rotten on us middle-aged fellows. Isn't there a hole of some sort a man of forty-three can stop up?"

"Of course they've come to more than that in England."

"We may come to it here if the war keeps up – but that isn't likely."

"No, that isn't likely unless Congress dies talking. Why, for God's sake, can't we strangle the pacifists for once? Nobody would grieve for them."

"Oh, if liberty isn't for fools, it isn't liberty. I suppose the supreme test of our civilization, is that we let people go on talking when we don't agree with them."

It was, in reality, only a few days that Congress was taking to define and emphasize the President's policy, but these days were interminable to a nation that waited. Talk was ruining the country, people said. Thirty-two months of talking were enough even for an American Congress. It was as much as a man's reputation was worth to vote against the war; it was more than it was worth to give his reasons for so voting. There was tension everywhere, yet there was a strange muffled quiet – the quiet before the storm.

"We are too late for the fun," said Robert. "Germany will back down as soon as she sees we are in earnest." This was what every one was saying, and Blackburn heard it again when he left Colfax and went into the club.

"The pity is we shan't have time to get a man over to France. It's all up to the navy."

"The British navy, you mean? Where'd we be now but for the British navy?"

"Well, thank God, the note writing is over!"

There was determination enough; but the older men were right – there was none of the flame and ardour of secession days. The war was realized vaguely as a principle rather than as a fact. It was the difference between fighting for abstract justice and knocking down a man in hot blood because he has affronted one's wife. The will to strike was all there, only one did not see red when one delivered the blow. Righteous indignation, not personal rage, was in the mind of America.

"We aren't mad yet," remarked an old Confederate soldier to Blackburn. "Just wait till they get us as mad as we were at Manassas, and we'll show the Germans!"

"You mean wait until they drop bombs on New York instead of London?"

"Good Lord, no. Just wait until our boys have seen, not read, about the things they are doing."

So there were a few who expected an American army to reach France before the end of the war.

"Never mind about taxes. We must whip the Huns, and we can afford to pay the bills!"

For here as elsewhere the one question never asked was, "What are we going to get out of it?"

Prosperity was after all a secondary interest. Underneath was the permanent idealism of the American mind.

When Blackburn reached Briarlay, he found Letty and Caroline walking under the budding trees in the lane, and stopping his car, he got out and strolled slowly back with them to the house. The shimmer and fragrance of spring was in the air, and on the ground crowds of golden crocuses were unfolding.

"Father, will you go to war if Uncle Roane does?" asked Letty, as she slipped her hand into Blackburn's and looked up, with her thoughtful child's eyes, into his face. "Uncle Roane says he is going to whip the Germans for me."

"I'll go, if they'll take me, Letty. Your Uncle Roane is ten years younger than I am." At the moment the war appeared to him, as it had appeared to Mary, as the open door – the way of escape from an intolerable situation; but he put this idea resolutely out of his mind. There was a moral cowardice in using impersonal issues as an excuse for the evasion of personal responsibility.

"But you could fight better than he could, father."

"I am inclined to agree with you. Perhaps the Government will think that way soon."

"Alan is going, too. Mother begged him not to, but he said he just had to go. Mammy Riah says the feeling is in his bones, and he can't help it. When a feeling gets into your bones you have to do what it tells you."

"It looks as if Mammy Riah knew something about it."

"But if you go and Alan goes and Uncle Roane goes, what will become of mother?"

"You will have to take care of her, Letty, you and Miss Meade."

Caroline, who had been walking in silence on the other side of the road, turned her head at the words. She was wearing a blue serge suit and a close-fitting hat of blue straw, and her eyes were as fresh and spring-like as the April sky.

"There is no doubt about war, is there?" she asked.

"It may come at any hour. Whether it will mean an American army in France or not, no one can say; but we shall have to furnish munitions, if not men, as fast as we can turn them out."

"Mr. Peyton said this morning it would be impossible to send men because we hadn't the ships."

Blackburn laughed. "Then, if necessary, we will do the impossible." It was the voice of America. Everywhere at that hour men were saying, "We will do the impossible."

"I should like to go," said Caroline. "I should like above all things to go."

They had stopped in the road, and still holding Letty's hand, he looked over her head at Caroline's face. "Miss Meade, will you make me a promise?"

Clear and radiant and earnest, her eyes held his gaze. "Unconditionally?"

"No, the conditions I leave to you. Will you promise?"

"I will promise." She had not lowered her eyes, and he had not looked away from her. Her face was pale, and in the fading sunlight he could see the little blue veins on her temples and the look of stern sweetness that sorrow had chiselled about her mouth. More than ever it seemed to him the face of a strong and fervent spirit rather than the face of a woman. So elusive was her beauty that he could say of no single feature, except her eyes, "Her charm lies here – or here – " yet the impression she gave him was one of magical loveliness. There was, he thought, a touch of the divine in her smile, as if her look drew its radiance from an inexhaustible source.

"Will you promise me," he said, "that whatever happens, as long as it is possible, you will stay with Letty?"

She waited a moment before she answered him, and he knew from her face that his words had touched the depths of her heart. "I promise you that for Letty's sake I will do the impossible," she answered.

She gave him her hand, and he clasped it over the head of the child. It was one of those rare moments of perfect understanding and sympathy – of a mental harmony beside which all emotional rapture appears trivial and commonplace. He was aware of no appeal to his senses – life had taught him the futility of all purely physical charm – and the hand that touched Caroline's was as gentle and as firm as it had been when it rested on Letty's head. Here was a woman who had met life and conquered it, who could be trusted, he felt, to fight to the death to keep her spirit inviolate.

"Only one thing will take me away from Letty," she said. "If we send an army and the country calls me."

"That one thing is the only thing?"

"The only thing unless," she laughed as if she were suggesting an incredible event, "unless you or Mrs. Blackburn should send me away!"

To her surprise the ridiculous jest confused him. "Take care of Letty," he responded quickly; and then, as they reached the porch, he dropped the child's hand, and went up the steps and into the house.

In the library, by one of the windows which looked out on the terrace and the sunset, Colonel Ashburton was reading the afternoon paper, and as Blackburn entered, he rose and came over to the fireplace.

"I was a little ahead of you, so I made myself at home, as you see," he observed, with his manner of antiquated formality. In the dim light his hair made a silvery halo above his blanched features, and it occurred to Blackburn that he had never seen him look quite so distinguished and detached from his age.

"If I'd known you were coming, I should have arranged to get here earlier."

"I didn't know it myself until it was too late to telephone you at the works." There was an unnatural constraint in his voice, and from the moment of his entrance, Blackburn had surmised that the Colonel's visit was not a casual one. The war news might have brought him; but it was not likely that he would have found the war news either disconcerting or embarrassing.

"The news is good, isn't it?" inquired Blackburn, a little stiffly, because he could think of nothing else to say.

"First rate. There isn't a doubt but we'll whip the Germans before autumn. It wasn't about the war, however, that I came."

"There is something else then?"

Before he replied Colonel Ashburton looked up gravely at the portrait of Blackburn's mother which hung over the mantelpiece. "Very like her, very like her," he remarked. "She was a few years older than I – but I'm getting on now – I'm getting on. That's the worst of being born between great issues. I was too young for the last war – just managed to be in one big battle before Lee surrendered – and I'm too old for this one. A peace Colonel doesn't amount to much, does he?" Then he looked sharply at Blackburn. "David," he asked in a curiously inanimate voice, "have you heard the things people are saying about you?"

"I have heard nothing except what has been said to my face."

"Then I may assume that the worst is still to be told you?"

"You may safely assume that, I think."

Again the Colonel's eyes were lifted to the portrait of Blackburn's mother. "There must be an answer to a thing like this, David," he said slowly. "There must be something that you can say."

"Tell me what is said."

Shaking the silvery hair from his forehead, the older man still gazed upward, as if he were interrogating the portrait – as if he were seeking guidance from the imperishable youth of the painted figure. Serene and soft as black pansies, the eyes of the picture looked down on him from a face that reminded him of a white roseleaf.

"It is said" – he hesitated as if the words hurt him – "that your wife accuses you of cruelty. I don't know how the stories started, but I have waited until they reached a point where I felt that they must be stopped – or answered. For the sake of your future – of your work – you must say something, David."

While he listened Blackburn had walked slowly to the window, gazing out on the afterglow, where some soft clouds, like clusters of lilacs, hung low above the dark brown edge of the horizon. For a moment, after the voice ceased, he still stood there in silence. Then wheeling abruptly, he came back to the hearth where the Colonel was waiting.

"Is that all?" he asked.