Burrs stuck to his trousers as he made his way slowly through tall grass, but he did not pause to pick them off. He was intent on finding his hill. Everything depended on that now. Once he had achieved it, all would be well. He would be safe from attack, protected by that Southern victory, redolent of virtue, courage, honor. Like burrs the words stuck to his mind. And though he reminded himself that words meant only what one wanted them to mean, he also knew that, once invested with meaning, words became magic, and could destroy as well as sustain.

  The field was the same. But upon the hill where he used to sit, trees had been cleared, a cellar dug, and in orderly piles cement block was stacked. The bullet would long since have been dug up by the bulldozer which had scooped out the cellar of the house-to-be.

  “What’re you doing here?” The voice belonged to a sad-faced man in blue jeans and windbreaker.

  “I’m sorry.” Burden was gracious. “I am Senator Day.”

  “I didn’t ask who you were. I asked what are you doing here. This is private property.”

  Stung, Burden stepped back, away from the profaned hill. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone lived here. I used to visit…”

  “I’ve got signs posted. I’m sure you can read.”

  “Yes. Very well. Thank you.” In a rage, Burden turned his back on the man. He had said who he was and yet the man had persisted in his rudeness. So a world of honor ends.

  Burden made his way back through the woods to the car, aware that the man in the field continued to watch him as if he might suddenly set the woods afire or in some other way diminish the value of the property.

  Burden’s driver had turned on the radio full volume. He was listening raptly, thick lips ajar, to the thunder of a lover’s lament.

  “Turn that damned thing off!” A long slow look as the young man absorbed the command. Then he switched off the radio and, slowly, opened the car door for Burden.

  “Take the river road. I’ll tell you when to stop.” As the car started, Burden realized that he was shivering. He held his hands together and with all his strength forced each hand to steady the other. But tremors still went through his body. Obviously a delayed reaction to what Peter had told him. By deliberately refusing to address his mind to his own ruin, the body had been forced to absorb the shock the mind disowned.

  He tried to imagine what the next few days would be like. The story would break on Thursday. He could anticipate the sneering tone. Lately Harold had taken to writing exposés of small (never great) corruptions in the Congress. Padded payrolls and illegal campaign contributions were the usual crimes, momentarily embarrassing to the legislator involved but seldom causing much damage. Americans had always believed that their representatives were corrupt since, given the same opportunity, they would be, too. As it was, the common folk daily cheated one another, misrepresenting the goods they sold and otherwise conducting themselves like their governors. If Clay Overbury was able to present himself as a war hero and be elected, why, then, they reckoned, more power to him. After all, he was no different from the used-car dealer who makes a profit on a car he knows will not run properly. Of course, “If you can’t be good, be careful” was the national wisdom, and it was hardly wise to be caught. Yet Burden was by no means convinced that Clay, for one, would have been defeated even if he had not had a war to hide in. The people seemed genuinely uninterested in moral matters. What mattered was winning, and Clay had won. For that matter if he himself had become President in 1940, the taking of Nillson’s money would have been regarded in retrospect as a brilliant necessity which in a sense it had been. Even now he regretted not so much the selling of his vote as the abandoning of his responsibility to the Indians.

  Sweat clouded his face while cold arms and legs twitched as though they were on strings, manipulated by someone not himself. He must regain control. He recalled a visit recently made by him by one of the Indians whose land was sold to Nillson. “Best thing ever happened to us, selling off that land. No damn oil in it anyway, and if we had stayed there we’d gone right on the way we was, ignorant as all hell. Now I got my own business and…” Success story: a bad action with good results.

  But Burden refused himself this easy comfort. He had all his life believed that one should behave in a certain way despite the example of others, and for most of his life he had been honest. Even as he sounded most royally all the depths and shoals of honor, he had made few compromises with his own sense of virtue. That others did not share his scrupulous niceness merely made him all the more pleased with himself. Now all that was at an end and he would be revealed as what he was, worse than the others because they at least never for a moment believed that it was better to be honest than dishonest, noble than ignoble, good than bad; no sophistry as to what was truly good could save him from himself, not to mention from the world’s contempt once Harold’s column had been printed. And to be truthful, it was the thought of what others would say that gave him the most pain. To know that they would laugh at him for being found out, take delight in the end of his career and then, easily, forget that he had ever existed, since what, after all, was he, but just another crooked politician who had had his day?”

  “Stop here.”

  The driver put on the brakes too quickly. Burden’s bad shoulder struck against the side of the car. He cursed softly. Then before the fool could ask what he was supposed to do next, Burden told him that he was to wait. “I’m going to take a walk. You can play the radio if you like.”

  Trees without leaves descended a steep slope to the Potomac, whose brown waters swirled about sharp rocks that broke the river’s flow, like so many stepping-stones set out for a giant’s use.

  A narrow path zigzagged among trees to which he clung as he hurried, like a boy, toward the river, nothing in his mind but a desire to escape entirely the present and the human.

  Abruptly the path turned to reveal a ruined cabin with roof half gone, door sprung and windows broken in. He stopped and looked inside. The floor was strewn with yellow newspapers and ashes from old fires. He thought of the soul’s dark cottage which, battered and decayed, let in new light, but only to reveal, on closer inspection, empty beer bottles, used contraceptives, and a man’s shoe. He continued his descent through the cool woods, the roar of water upon rocks growing louder with each step.

  The path ended at a narrow rocky beach. Between tall boulders worn smooth by the last glacier, his father stood, wearing a torn Confederate uniform and holding a rifle, just as he had that day in the field at Manassas when his son had failed to recognize him. But there was no mistaking him now. The blazing eyes of the furious boy he had never known were those of the man who had been his life’s tormentor.

  Burden spoke first. “You were right,” he said. “It has all gone wrong. You should be pleased.” He took a tentative step toward the Confederate corporal, who took a step back, revealing as he did the torn cloth of his tunic, bright with a new wound’s blood.

  “You’re bleeding still!” The triumphant shout caused the boy to hold his rifle in such a way as to bar Burden’s approach to him. But in his passion Burden was not to be put off by mere death. All life was now concentrated in that single gaping wound and all that needed doing in the world was the staunching of the blood.

  With stiff fingers Burden removed a handkerchief from his pocket. Then he walked toward the wounded soldier, half expecting him to run away. But this was no ordinary youth; it was his father honorably struck by an enemy’s bullet in the field of battle. The Confederate corporal did not flinch even when at last they were face to face.

  For a long moment Burden stared into the blue eyes that perfectly reflected empty sky. Then slowly he extended the hand which held the handkerchief. Now only the rifle barred his way. He waited patiently until at last, marvelously, the rifle was lowered. With a cry he flung himself upon the youth who was his father, plunged the handkerchief into the wound, lost his balance, fell against the beloved, was taken into those long-dead arms, and like impatient lovers, they embraced and together fell.

  NINE

  I

  Like a stranger not certain of how he would be received, Peter entered the crowded drawing room to find the chandelier of the Prince Regent replaced by a fantastic affair of colored Venetian glass. But then everything in the house had been changed except the people: Regency crystal might give way to Venetian glass but Lucy Shattuck endured, only a certain leatheriness of face betraying the possibility that in time she, too, would stop.

  “Peter, dear!” As she embraced him ritually, she muttered in his ear, “I’ve never seen anything like what she’s done to the house!”

  “It’s not exactly austere.” Vivid colors, exotic glass, modern furniture of extravagant design had been combined to create an impression of bold opulence which he did not altogether dislike once he had got used to the idea that Laurel House was simply a building like any other, a piece of real estate which, having changed hands, must necessarily change character, and so, blithely, the setting of his youth had been swept away by an interior decorator, fulfilling a client’s dream.

  “If Frederika could see this, I think she’d die!” Lucy seemed delighted at the thought of her old friend’s apoplectic death.

  “Well, she’ll never see it. She’s sworn never to set foot in the house again.” Though Frederika had been the one most eager to sell (“too many memories”), she had complained bitterly when the house was finally bought by Mrs. Ogden Watress. Fortunately, the distraction of recreating Laurel House in a pre-Depression Renaissance palace on Massachusetts Avenue kept her from brooding; Blaise, on the other hand, was delighted to be living in town, closer to his headquarters on Ninth Street.

  “Your father’s here, believe it or not.”

  “I do believe it. Why not?” Across the room, Mrs. Watress, seeing Peter for the first time, gave a glad cry and abandoned her two companions (members of the Administration, each wearing identical rimless spectacles) in order to welcome Peter to his old home.

  “Well, what do you think? Haven’t I done wonders?” Irene indicated primitive sculpture, Venetian glass, a Monet above the fireplace.

  “I would never have recognized the house,” said Peter accurately. “Only the outside is the same.”

  “Not for long. I am adding a Palladian wing, because of Ogden and all those animals he’s shot. We’re going to have a gallery in which there will be nothing but stuffed heads!”

  “You must charge admission,” said Lucy Shattuck. “I’ll pay, gladly.”

  Peter refused to catch her eye. “How does Mr. Watress like living in Washington?”

  “He’ll get used to it.” Irene was more than ever superb in her confidence. “And of course he knows so many of the Eisenhower people, like Foster Dulles. In fact, cher Foster was the Watress trustee.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Lucy drily. “I too was a Watress bride. But even cher Foster couldn’t keep Ogden and Schuyler from going broke.” Lucy’s malice was exuberant and impartial. She always had the absolute lowdown on everyone; in the case of the Watresses, however, there was not much that even she could reveal for that beleaguered family had become public property when Senator Clay Overbury married Elizabeth Watress in a splendid ceremony marred only by the unexpected appearance of Schuyler Watress, who had insisted upon giving away his daughter, to Elizabeth’s horror since Schuyler was not the most anonymous of alcoholics. Yet he had behaved reasonably well in the church, and once the ceremony was over he had the grace to vanish altogether; not to be heard of again until the autumn, when he sent the newlyweds a press clipping describing a polo match in which he had scored three goals at Santa Barbara. There was no accompanying letter. Happily, his place at the wedding reception was more than filled by his former wife, Lucy, and his recently bankrupt brother Ogden, not to mention the best man, Blaise, who had acted, Peter duly noted, like the father of the groom.

  The wedding reception had been held at Laurel House and though no one was ever quite certain whether or not Irene Bloch had been invited, she was there and made history. Within minutes of having met Ogden Watress, she decided that the time had come to put off her widow’s weeds, and though she later confided to Peter that she was at first reluctant to give up her name, she had finally made even that sacrifice for love. She became Mrs. Ogden Watress in a ceremony performed aboard a ship of the Cunard Line, en route to Le Havre. For plain interest and delighted gossip, Irene’s marriage created almost as much interest in the city as the more glorious wedding of Clay and Elizabeth, and it was agreed by all the ladies that one had to take off one’s hat to Irene. She had triumphed. No one could ever again overlook or patronize her. With the purchase of Laurel House, her victory was total. All came to Irene, except Peter’s mother, who was not missed.

  “Ogden has the most extraordinary business acumen!” Irene gazed benignly at her tall, hulking, red-faced husband, who was showing several puzzled guests a piece of modern sculpture so large that it nearly barred the way to what had been in Peter’s day the cardroom but was now, as far as he could make out from where he stood, an art gallery ingeniously lighted.

  “Then he must’ve changed since I was married to Schuyler. In my day it was a competition between the two boys as to who could lose the most money.”

  “Peter and I detest business, don’t we?” Irene beamed at Peter who agreed that business was not his forte. “We are au fond spirituel, which is why it’s so amusing that together we make money.”

  Lucy was curious. “Is that Communist manifesto of yours really profitable?”

  “Oh yes.” Peter was mild; no criticism of The American Idea ever distressed him. “As a matter of fact, we’re almost mass-circulation now, thanks to Senator McCarthy.” During the Congressional hearings in which the demagogue had found significant and sinister the promotion of an obscure Army dentist thought to be sympathetic to the Left, The American Idea had launched a series of attacks on the Senator, who subsequently began to fail, and Peter liked to think that this decline was due at least in part to the work he and Aeneas had done. In any event, the investigator himself was under current investigation by a Senate subcommittee and after four years of national distress, the United States Senate in its ponderous way was now upon the verge of censuring McCarthy for having behaved discourteously in their house.

  “Elizabeth!” Irene greeted Lucy’s daughter, who looked even more beautiful, Peter decided, than she had before her marriage.

  Irene thought so, too. “It’s being a mother that’s done it! Look at her, Lucy! Look at how lovely our girl is!”

  “She certainly looks better than she did when she was pregnant and covered with hives. Hello, dear.” Lucy gave her daughter an offhand kiss. Then, wanting excitement, she turned to Peter. “Are you two friendly this year or not?”

  “I’m always friendly,” said Peter, not offering his hand to Elizabeth, who did not for an instant let her broad smile fade.

  “So am I!” Her eyes glowed. “At least I try to be because Clay says never let politics become personal. But I can’t always help it. There are times when I get absolutely furious when some little twerp attacks Clay, and then of course I say something simply awful and then Clay’s furious with me!”

  “Implying that only a little twerp would attack our Clay?” When not in her element, Lucy could be counted on to create it.

  Quickly Irene tried to keep what peace there was. “We must all be friends! Besides, aren’t we all related? I’m Elizabeth’s tante while Clay and Peter…”

  “You are my aunt, aren’t you? And I’m so glad!” Peter found Elizabeth altogether impressive. In the old days, she had particularly disdained “gruesome” Irene but now she was downright loving, unlike her mother who continued to torture Irene just as though she were still the Mrs. Samuel I. Bloch who crashed parties and not the savior of the brothers Watress as well as co-sponsor of Senator Overbury’s career.

  “…while Clay is Peter’s brother-in-law…”

  “He was my brother-in-law,” Peter sounded more sharp than he intended.

  Elizabeth’s large jaw set, though the smile never faded. “But family loyalty continues, no matter what.”

  “Oh, mine does.” Peter wondered if he had ever really liked her. “But to my family, not him. To Enid, in fact.”

  “But there’s Senator Watkins!” Irene abandoned her relatives.

  “Enid was a wonderful girl.” Elizabeth spoke as though in defense of the dead. “And a tremendously loyal person, and I think that’s the most important thing in the world.”

  “Do you really?” Her mother was amused.

  “Loyalty may be the most important thing in the world,” said Peter, “but that was the one quality Enid lacked.”

  “How can you say that about her?” Elizabeth’s fury, never far from the surface, erupted at last to her mother’s obvious delight. “Why do you always have to attack everybody? Particularly poor Enid, who’s dead.”

  “I wasn’t attacking her. I simply said that loyalty was not Enid’s strong point.”

  “Elizabeth is quite mad on the subject of loyalty,” said her mother. “I think she gets it from Clay. In the old days we never even used the word, did we, dear?”

  “Oh, yes, we did—at least I did.” On familiar ground with her mother, Elizabeth regained her poise. “I’ve always felt one should know exactly who one’s friends are, and what to expect from them.” She turned to Peter. “I’m keeping a little black book.”

  “To list your friends or your enemies?” Peter was amused.

  “Oh, enemies! After all, revenge can be as sweet as love.”

  “Good heavens, what a child I’ve produced!” Lucy was almost respectful. She changed the subject, as though suspecting that her own name might head the list. “Is Clay with you? Did he come?”