For thirty years Christmas dinner had been an event at Shane’s Castle.
John Shane, who had no family of his own, who was cut off from friends
and relatives, adopted in the seventies the family of his wife, and
established the custom of inviting every relative and connection to a
great feast with wine, a turkey, a goose and a pair of roast pigs. In
the old days before the MacDougal Farm was swallowed up by the growing
town, New Year’s dinner at the farmhouse had also been an event. The
family came in sleds and sleighs from all parts of the county to gather
round the groaning table of Jacob Barr, Julia Shane’s brother-in-law and
the companion of John Shane in the paddock now covered by warehouses.
But all that was a part of the past. Even the farmhouse no longer
existed. Christmas at Cypress Hill was all that remained.
Once there had been as many as thirty gathered about the table, but one
by one these had vanished, passing out of this life or migrating to the
West when the Mills came and the county grew crowded; for the
MacDougals, the Barrs and all their connection were adventurers, true
pioneers who became wretched when they were no longer surrounded by a
sense of space, by enough air, unclogged by soot and coal gas, for their
children to breathe.
On Christmas day there came to Cypress Hill a little remnant of seven.
These with Julia Shane and her two daughters were all that remained of a
family whose founder had crossed the Appalachians from Maryland to
convert the wilderness into fertile farming land. They arrived at the
portico with the wrought iron columns in two groups, the first of which
was known as The Tolliver Family. It included Cousin Hattie, her husband
Charles Tolliver, their daughter Ellen, two sons Fergus and Robert, and
Jacob Barr, who made his home with them and shared with Julia Shane the
position of Head of the Family.
They drove up in a sleigh drawn by two horses--good horses, for Jacob
Barr and Charles Tolliver were judges of horseflesh--and Mrs. Tolliver
got down first, a massive woman, large without being fat, with a rosy
complexion and a manner of authority. She wore a black feather boa, a
hat trimmed with stubby ostrich plumes perched high on her fine black
hair, and a short jacket of astrakhan, slightly _démodé_ owing to its
leg-of-mutton sleeves. After her descended her father, the patriarch
Jacob Barr. The carriage rocked beneath his bulk. He stood six feet
three in his stocking feet and for all his eighty-two years was bright
as a dollar and straight as a poker. A long white beard covered his
neckerchief and fell to the third button of his embroidered waistcoat,
entangling itself in the heavy watch chain from which hung suspended a
nugget of gold, souvenir of his adventure to the Gold Coast in the
Forties. He carried a heavy stick of cherry wood and limped, having
broken his hip and recovered from it at the age of eighty.
Next Ellen got down, her dark curls transformed into a pompadour as her
mother’s concession to a recent eighteenth birthday. She was tall, slim,
and handsome despite the awkwardness of the girl not yet turned woman.
Her eyes were large and blue and her hands long and beautiful. She had
the family nose, prominent and proudly curved, which in Julia Shane had
become an eagle’s beak. After her, Fergus, a tall, shy boy of fourteen,
and Robert, two years younger, sullen, wilful, red-haired like his
venerable grandfather, who in youth was known in the county as The Red
Scot. The boys were squabbling and had to be put in order by their
mother before entering Cousin Julia’s handsome house. Under her watchful
eye there was a prolonged scraping of shoes on the doormat. She managed
her family with the air of a field-marshal.
As for Charles Tolliver, he turned over the steaming horses to Hennery,
bade the black man blanket them well, talked with him for a moment, and
then followed the others into the house. Him Hennery adored, with the
adoration of a servant for one who understands servants. In the
stables, Hennery put extra zeal into the rubbing down of the animals,
his mind carrying all the while the picture of a tall gentleman with
graying hair, kindly eyes and a pleasant soft voice.
“Mr. Tolliver,” he told the mulatto woman later in the day, “is one of
God’s gentlemen.”
The other group was known as The Barr Family. The passing of years had
thinned its ranks until there remained only Eva Barr, the daughter of
Samuel Barr and therefore a niece of the vigorous and patriarchal Jacob.
Characteristically she made her entrance in a town hack, stopping to
haggle with the driver over the fare. Her thin, spinsterish voice rose
above the roaring of the Mills until at length she lost the argument, as
she always did, and paid reluctantly the prodigious twenty-five cents.
She might easily have come by way of the Halsted street trolley for five
cents, but this she considered neither safe nor dignified. As she grew
older and more eccentric, she had come to exercise extraordinary
precautions to safeguard her virginity. She was tall, thin, and dry,
with a long nose slightly red at the end, and hair that hung in
melancholy little wisps about an equine face; yet she had a double lock
put on the door of her room at Haines’ boarding house, and nothing would
have induced her to venture alone into the squalid Flats. She was poor
and very pious. Into her care fell the destitute of her parish. She
administered scrupulously with the hard efficiency of a penurious
housekeeper.
Dinner began at two and assumed the ceremonial dignity of a tribal rite.
It lasted until the winter twilight, descending prematurely because of
the smoke from the Mills, made it necessary for the mulatto woman and
her black helpers to bring in the silver candlesticks, place them amid
the wreckage of the great feast, and light them to illumine the paneled
walls of the somber dining-room. When the raisins and nuts and the
coffee in little gilt cups had gone the rounds, the room resounded with
the scraping of chairs, and the little party wandered out to distribute
itself at will through the big house. Every year the distribution
followed the same plan. In one corner of the big drawing-room Irene, in
her plain gray dress, and Eva Barr, angular and piercing in durable and
shiny black serge, foregathered, drawn by their mutual though very
different interest in the poor. Each year the two spinsters fell upon
the same arguments; for they disagreed about most fundamental things.
The attitude of Irene toward the poor was the Roman attitude, full of
paternalism, beneficent, pitying. Eva Barr in her Puritan heart had no
room for such sentimental slop. “The poor,” she said, “must be taught to
pull themselves out of the rut. It’s sinful to do too much for them.”
Two members of the family, the oldest, Jacob Barr, and the youngest, his
grandson, disappeared completely, the one to make his round of the
stables and park, the other to vanish into the library where, unawed by
the sinister portrait of old John Shane, he poked about, stuffing
himself with the candy sent by Willie Harrison as a token of a thrice
renewed courtship. The grandfather, smoking what he quaintly called a
cheroot, surveyed scrupulously the stable and the house, noting those
portions which were falling into disrepair. These he later brought to
the attention of Julia Shane; and the old woman, leaning on her stick,
listened with an air of profound attention to her brother-in-law only to
forget everything he had advised the moment the door closed upon him.
Each year it was the same. Nothing changed.
In the far end of the drawing-room by the grand piano, Lily drew Ellen
Tolliver and the tall shy brother Fergus to her side. Here Mrs. Tolliver
joined them, her eyes bright with flooding admiration for her children.
The girl was plainly fascinated by her glamorous cousin. She examined
boldly Lily’s black gown from Worth, her pearls, and her shoes from the
Rue de la Paix. She begged for accounts of the Opéra in Paris and of
Paderewski’s playing with the Colonne Orchestra. There was something
pitiful in her eagerness for some contact with the glamorous world
beyond the Town.
“I’m going to New York to study, next year,” she told Lily. “I would go
this year but Momma says I’m too young. Of course, I’m not. If I had
money, I’d go anyway.” And she cast a sudden defiant glance at her
powerful mother.
Lily, her face suddenly grave with the knowledge of Judge Weissman’s
visit, tried to reassure her. “You’ll have plenty of opportunity, Ellen.
You’re still a young girl ... only eighteen.”
“But there’s never any money,” the girl replied, with an angry gleam in
her wide blue eyes. “Papa’s always in debt. I’ll never get a chance
unless I make it myself.”
In the little alcove by the gallery, Julia Shane leaning on her stick,
talked business with Charles Tolliver. This too was a yearly custom; her
nephew, the county treasurer, gave her bits of advice on investments
which she wrote down with a silver pencil and destroyed when he had
gone. She listened and begged his advice because the giving of it
encouraged him and gave him confidence. He was a gentle, honest fellow,
and in her cold way she loved him, better even than she loved his wife
who was her niece by blood. The advice he gave was mediocre and
uninspired; besides Julia Shane was a shrewd woman and more than a match
in business matters for most men.
When they had finished this little ceremony, the old woman turned the
conversation to the Cyclops Mill scandal.
“And what’s to come of it?” she asked. “Are you going to win?”
Charles Tolliver smiled. “We’ve won already. The case was settled
yesterday. The Mill owes the state some five hundred thousand with
fines.”
Julia Shane again pounded the floor in delight. “A fine Christmas
present!” she chuckled. “A fine Christmas present!” And then she did an
unaccountable thing. With her thin ringed hand she slapped her nephew on
the back.
“You know they came to me,” she said, “to get my influence. I told them
to go to the Devil!... I suppose they tried to bribe you.”
The nephew frowned and the gentleness went out of his face. The fine
mouth grew stern. “They tried ... carefully though, so carefully they
couldn’t be caught at it.”
“It will make you trouble. Judge Weissman is a bad enemy. He’s
powerful.”
“I know that. I’ve got to fight him. The farmers are with me.”
“But the Town is not, and it’s the Town which counts nowadays. The day
of the farmer is past.”
“No, the Town is not.”
The face of Charles Tolliver grew serious and the blue eyes grave and
worried. Julia Shane saw that he was watching his tall daughter who sat
now at the piano, preparing to play.
“If you need money at the next election,” she said, “Come to me. I can
help you.”