Boston a novel
streaming up the path from the road below, dressed in their pathetic
best; they would stand patiently for an hour or two, listening to
the strains of the organ and waiting their time to file through the
room. A rare occasion for them; one might work in the mills another
generation and gaze up at the white-painted castle amid its sheltering
elm trees and never climb the path to glimpse the splendor. The rest
of the village, which did not work in the mills, was clustered along
the roadside to stare at the shining limousines and their stately
occupants. It was feudalism in frock-coats.
The grandfather’s clock at the head of the stairs pointed to
one-fifty-four, and the organ was pealing a magnificent heavy
tune. Every person in the room knew the words, and beheld the same
magnificent picture--
_Ten thousand times ten thousand
In sparkling raiment bright,
The armies of the ransomed saints
Stream up the steeps of light:
’Tis finished, all is finished,
Their fight with death and sin:
Fling open wide the golden gates
And let the victors in._
At which sublime moment, with all heaven thundering in her ears, Alice
Thornwell Winters, black of dress and white of face, was confronting
Clara Thornwell Scatterbridge, demanding, “Once more and for the last
time, do you admit that the Mayflower cradle is my property?”
Said Clara: “I think this a most unsuitable moment--”
Said Alice: “There could be no moment more suitable. It marks the
break-up of our family, if you so decree. That Mayflower cradle has
been the cradle of our destiny, and the symbol of our position. I was
rocked in its arms, and the generations before me. I bore the first
man-child--”
Said Clara: “Well, I have borne five boys and two girls, even though a
little bit late.”
Said Alice: “I have Father’s pledge and I stand on that. Give me your
answer!”
Said Clara: “It is a matter about which James must be consulted--”
Said Alice: “You have had opportunity to consult James, and you have
done so. If you do not answer my question, I understand that your
answer is no.”
The clock had moved one minute, and Cornelia came, saying, “It is time
to descend. I hope my children are not going to advertise our family
shame to the world.”
XII
The procession of men and women and children was formed in the proper
order, and down the stairs, two by two, they went: Cornelia first, with
no veil over her features and no tears in her soft brown eyes; her
gray hair was smoothed flat, and her little round face was solemn, her
little nose facing straight ahead, her gaze fixed upon nothingness.
One hand rested upon the arm of Great-uncle Abner; and behind her
came Great-uncle Ahab, escorting Great-aunt Priscilla. Then Deborah,
the oldest daughter, with her husband, Rupert Alvin; then Alice, the
second daughter, with her husband, Henry Cabot Winters; then Clara,
with her husband, James Scatterbridge; then the son of Alice, and the
two daughters of Deborah and the seven children of Clara tapering to a
small pair with a governess between them. The miscellaneous uncles and
aunts and nephews and nieces and cousins had already been seated inside
the magic purple ribbon, so the procession ended with the personal
servants; Addicks, with his venerable black suit showing slightly green
in the bright sunlight; the governor’s private secretary, and his Negro
valet, and Cornelia’s Negro maid, and the handy man, and the gardener,
and the cook--all persons who had been with the family so long that
they alone knew the dates.
The six pairs of white-robed choir boys came down the center aisle,
their cherub voices proclaiming, “Now the laborer’s task is o’er; Now
the battle day is past.” The last and tallest bore a high jeweled cross
and behind it strode the two clergymen, robed in white and black.
All found their proper places, and the rector lifted his hands and
pronounced, “Peace be upon this house.” And, truly, whatever spells he
might command were in order at this moment, with Clara Scatterbridge
sitting with her teeth clenched on the thought, “They are ours and
we shall keep them!” And Alice Winters glaring before her at the
sentence, “They got it by a mortgage, like pawnbrokers!” And Priscilla
Alvin, elder daughter of Deborah, shutting her fists tight upon the
conviction, “When it comes to a show down, Mother will give up, but I
will never give up!”
“I am the r-r-r-esur-r-ection and the life!” proclaimed the Reverend
Dr. Wolverhampton; and then, exactly as if he had known about Mayflower
cradles and Shah of Persia’s rugs, he added, “We brought nothing into
this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.” The choir
chanted, “Lord, thou hast been our refuge: from one generation to
another”; and then the clergyman began to read the extract from the
fifteenth chapter of the First Epistle of St. Paul to the Corinthians.
It is very long and somewhat involved, so there was no matter for
surprise if here and there a member of the congregation found his
attention straying. Rupert Alvin had seen, as he came down the aisle,
the face of Jerry Walker gazing from one of the side seats; thus it was
inevitable that Rupert should be thinking about the felt-plants and
the hat-works which Jerry had bought, and would he be able to meet
his notes, and how far should the Pilgrim National Bank lead him on?
And Great-uncle Abner, who in the next match was to meet the French
Jew, and could not help wondering about the fellow’s tricks. And young
Josiah Thornwell Winters, the infinitely precious son of Alice, who had
a date with a girl and wondered how soon he would get off. And Betty
Alvin, who sat behind her grandmother, thinking, “If only she’d come
stay with us and liven things up!”
The voice of the rector was wrestling with the complicated Pauline
metaphysics. “For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this
mortal must put on immortality. So when this corruptible shall have put
on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then
shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed
up in victory.” Cornelia was thinking “Can all that really be true?
Shall I really ever see Josiah again? Is he alive somewhere now, and
does he know what I am thinking? If he does, am I really free?”
In the casket, within three feet of her, lay what St. Paul called the
“natural body” of her husband. For three days it had been preserved by
formaldehyde solutions; but an hour or two more and it would be shoved
into a vault, and there would begin a process extremely unpleasant to
think about. Cornelia had been reading Fabre, and had come upon the
details, which now forced themselves upon her shuddering thoughts. St.
Paul, thinking the same thoughts, had said, “This corruptible must put
on incorruption.”
XIII
The clergyman was praying; and Cornelia, down upon her knees, said
a prayer of her own, “Oh, Lord, let my children stop quarreling!”
Then she was back in her seat, listening to a eulogy of the great
departed. “When the state was in peril, he was as a rock of refuge
... to every need, public or private, he gave freely ... the greatest
of his generation ... we of the new time call in vain for his like--”
and so on, a discourse that was Boston in every tone and accent. But
Cornelia’s mind was occupied with the realities of this household, to
whom the glory of Josiah was not a crown to be worn but a carcass to
be rended. For years she had prayed “O Lord, take worldliness out of
their hearts.” But something must have been wrong with her technique of
prayer; it had failed entirely of effect.
“The services will be continued at the place of interment,” said
the rector; and the six pairs of choir boys marched out, singing
“The church’s one foundation,” and the guests moved slowly into the
library and the drawing-room, or to the front lawn, to await while the
mill-hands filed across the room. The executives of the company were in
charge of this, but Cornelia considered it her duty to remain, and her
daughters, not to be outdone in ceremony, stood by her side.
The workers came in single file, slowly and hesitatingly: men and
women, old and young, foreigners for the most part, pathetic figures,
the more so because of their efforts to look proper. It was not often,
under this system of feudalism in frock-coats, that the two kinds of
people met in the same place; but here they were, the masters, tall
and elegant, and the toilers, stunted in form and scarred in features,
with shoulders bowed and limbs crooked and hands knotted and calloused.
They had stood upon weary feet for hours in order to see this splendor,
but now they were too timid to look at it; all but a few of the young
ones kept their eyes straight ahead. A few saw Cornelia--persons whom
she had visited in sickness--and these made faint signs of recognition,
which she acknowledged.
Then came the pall-bearers; the honorary ones, whose names were in
the papers, walking honorably alongside. The casket was slid into
the hearse; the relatives entered their cars and so did those guests
who cared to follow, and the long line of vehicles set out, with two
motorcycle officers at the head and all traffic waiting respectfully.
So they came to the family mausoleum, with the costly bronze receptacle
waiting for its tenant. The group stood about with heads bowed, and
again the choir sang and the Reverend Dr. Wolverhampton lifted up his
rolling voice. “Man that is born of woman, hath but a short time to
live, and is full of misery.” The casket was set in place and sealed,
and the doors of the vault were shut and locked; the blessings of
the Lord were conferred upon those present; and all was over. The
hearse went back to its garage to await the morrow’s passenger and the
guests scattered to their homes; the members of the family returned to
“Hillview” for a ceremony which concerned them alone--the reading of
Josiah Thornwell’s will.
XIV
Behold them waiting in the library: every one, from the highest to
the lowest, the richest to the poorest--even the older servants, who
were certain of being remembered. Every one--save two. Clara, looking
about, missed her sister Alice and, becoming suddenly suspicious, went
into the entrance hall. There, coming down the broad staircase, was a
sight the like of which had never been seen by any Thornwell since the
days--well, a long time ago, when the ancestors had been privateersmen.
Alice was marching, her cultivated features set in grim defiance and
her deep-souled eyes staring before her; behind her a French maid, and
between them a piece of furniture of brown varnished wood, much scarred
and scratched.
Clara stood, all but paralyzed. “Alice Thornwell! What are you
doing?”--as if it were not evident enough! Then, seeing Alice go
straight by without a word: “If you take that cradle out of this house,
I will never speak to you while I live!” And then, “I will denounce
you for a thief to the world!” And when even this most dreadful of
maledictions failed of effect, Clara could only stand with fingernails
dug into the palms of her hands and face white with fury, whispering
over and over, “Oh! Oh! _Oh!_”
They went through the front door and Clara rushed into the library,
whispering to her mother “Alice is stealing the cradle!” Cornelia
hurried outside in time to see the heirloom being loaded onto the
Winters limousine. It would not go through the door, but the two women
set it on the running-board on the right-hand side, away from the
chauffeur; the maid sat on the front seat and held it through the front
window and Alice sat on the rear seat and held it through the rear
window; and the car rolled away down the drive, leaving the Thornwell
family like a nest of ants which has been stepped on.