The sailor, looking, said:
“That b-b-b-boy sure suffered.” Suddenly, turning his face away into his hand, he sobbed briefly and painfully, his confused stammering life drawn out of its sprawl into a moment of hard grief.
Eugene wept, not because he saw Ben there, but because Ben had gone, and because he remembered all the tumult and the pain.
“It is over now,” said Horse Hines gently. “He is at peace.”
“By God, Mr. Hines,” said the sailor earnestly, as he wiped his eyes on his jacket, “that was one g-g-great boy.”
Horse Hines looked raptly at the cold strange face.
“A fine boy,” he murmured as his fisheye fell tenderly on his work. “And I have tried to do him justice.”
They were silent for a moment, looking.
“You’ve d-d-done a fine job,” said the sailor. “I’ve got to hand it to you. What do you say, ’Gene?”
“Yes,” said Eugene, in a small choking voice. “Yes.”
“He’s a b-b-b-bit p-p-p-pale, don’t you think?” the sailor stammered, barely conscious of what he was saying.
“Just a moment!” said Horse Hines quickly, lifting a finger. Briskly he took a stick of rouge from his pocket, stepped forward, and deftly, swiftly, sketched upon the dead gray cheeks a ghastly rose-hued mockery of life and health.
“There!” he said, with deep satisfaction; and, rouge-stick in hand, head critically cocked, like a painter before his canvas, he stepped back into the terrible staring prison of their horror.
“There are artists, boys, in every profession,” Horse Hines continued in a moment, with quiet pride, “and though I do say it myself, Luke, I’m proud of my work on this job. Look at him!” he exclaimed with sudden energy, and a bit of color in his gray face. “Did you ever see anything more natural in your life?”
Eugene turned upon the man a grim and purple stare, noting with pity, with a sort of tenderness, as the dogs of laughter tugged at his straining throat the earnestness and pride in the long horse-face.
“Look at it!” said Horse Hines again in slow wonder. “I’ll never beat that again! Not if I live to be a million! That’s art, boys!”
A slow strangling gurgle escaped from Eugene’s screwed lips. The sailor looked quickly at him, with a crazy suppressed smile.
“What’s the matter?” he said warningly. “Don’t, fool!” His grin broke loose.
Eugene staggered across the floor and collapsed upon a chair, roaring with laughter while his long arms flapped helplessly at his sides.
“Scuse!” he gasped. “Don’t mean to—A-r-rt! Yes! Yes! That’s it!” he screamed, and he beat his knuckles in a crazy tattoo upon the polished floor. He slid gently off the chair, slowly unbuttoning his vest, and with a languid hand loosening his necktie. A faint gurgle came from his weary throat, his head lolled around on the floor languidly, tears coursed down his swollen features.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you c-c-c-crazy?” said the sailor, all a-grin.
Horse Hines bent sympathetically and assisted the boy to his feet.
“It’s the strain,” he said knowingly to the sailor. “The pore fellow has become hysterical.”
XXXVII
So, to Ben dead was given more care, more time, more money than had ever been given to Ben living. His burial was a final gesture of irony and futility: an effort to compensate carrion death for the unpaid wage of life—love and mercy. He had a grand funeral. All the Pentlands sent wreaths, and came with their separate clans, bringing along with their hastily assumed funeral manners a smell of recent business. Will Pentland talked with the men about politics, the war, and trade conditions, paring his nails thoughtfully, pursing his lips and nodding in his curiously reflective way, and occasionally punning with a birdy wink. His pleased self-laughter was mixed with Henry’s loud guffaw. Pett, older, kinder, gentler than Eugene had ever seen her, moved about with a rustling of gray silk, and a relaxed bitterness. And Jim was there, with his wife, whose name Eugene forgot, and his four bright hefty daughters, whose names he confused, but who had all been to college and done well, and his son, who had been to a Presbyterian college, and had been expelled for advocating free love and socialism while editor of the college paper. Now he played the violin, and loved music, and helped his father with the business: he was an effeminate and mincing young man, but of the breed. And there was Thaddeus Pentland, Will’s bookkeeper, the youngest and poorest of the three. He was a man past fifty, with a pleasant red face, brown mustaches, and a gentle placid manner. He was full of puns and pleased good-nature, save when he quoted from Karl Marx and Eugene Debs. He was a Socialist, and had once received eight votes for Congress. He was there with his garrulous wife (whom Helen called Jibber-Jibber) and his two daughters, languid good-looking blondes of twenty and twenty-four.
There they were, in all their glory—that strange rich clan, with its fantastic mixture of success and impracticality, its hard monied sense, its visionary fanaticism. There they were, in their astonishing contradictions: the business man who had no business method, and yet had made his million dollars; the frantic antagonist of Capital who had given the loyal service of a lifetime to the thing he denounced; the wastrel son, with the bull vitality of the athlete, a great laugh, animal charm—no more; the musician son, a college rebel, intelligent, fanatic, with a good head for figures; insane miserliness for oneself, lavish expenditure for one’s children.
There they were, each with the familiar marking of the clan—broad nose, full lips, deep flat cheeks, deliberate pursed mouths, flat drawling voices, flat complacent laughter. There they were, with their enormous vitality, their tainted blood, their meaty health, their sanity, their insanity, their humor, their superstition, their meanness, their generosity, their fanatic idealism, their unyielding materialism. There they were, smelling of the earth and Parnassus—that strange clan which met only at weddings or funerals, but which
