Then, exploding suddenly in maniacal anger, the quiet one sprang upon the amateur pugilist with one bound, and flattened him with a single blow of his fist.
Steve’s head bounced upon the floor in a most comforting fashion.
Eugene gave a loud shriek of ecstasy and danced about, insane with joy, while Ben, making little snarling noises in his throat, leaped on his brother’s prostrate body and thumped his bruised skull upon the boards.
There was a beautiful thoroughness about his wakened anger — it never made inquiries till later.
“Good old Ben,” screamed Eugene, howling with insane laughter.
“Good old Ben.”
Eliza, who had been calling out loudly for help, the police, and the interference of the general public, now succeeded, with Luke’s assistance, in checking Ben’s assault, and pulling him up from his dazed victim.
She wept bitterly, her heart laden with pain and sadness, while Luke, forgetful of his bloody nose, sorrowful and full of shame only because brother had struck brother, assisted Steve to his feet and brushed him off.
A terrible shame started up in each of them — they were unable to meet one another’s gaze.
Ben’s thin face was very white; he trembled violently and, catching sight of Steve’s bleared eyes for a moment, he made a retching noise in his throat, went over to the sink, and drank a glass of cold water.
“A house divided against itself cannot stand,” Eliza wept.
Helen came in from town with a bag of warm bread and cakes.
“What’s the matter?” she said, noting at once all that had happened.
“I don’t know,” said Eliza, her face working, shaking her head for several moments before she spoke.
“It seems that the judgment of God is against us.
There’s been nothing but misery all my life.
All I want is a little peace.”
She wept softly, wiping her weak bleared eyes with the back of her hand.
“Well, forget about it,” said Helen quietly.
Her voice was casual, weary, sad.
“How do you feel, Steve?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t make any trouble for any one, Helen,” he said, with a maudlin whimper.
“No! No!” he continued in a brooding voice.
“They’ve never given Steve a chance.
They’re all down on him.
They jumped on me, Helen.
My own brothers jumped on me, sick as I am, and beat me up.
It’s all right.
I’m going away somewhere and try to forget.
Stevie doesn’t hold any grudge against any one.
He’s not built that way.
Give me your hand, buddy,” he said, turning to Ben with nauseous sentimentality and extending his yellow fingers,
“I’m willing to shake your hand.
You hit me to-night, but Steve’s willing to forget.”
“Oh my God,” said Ben, grasping his stomach.
He leaned weakly across the sink and drank another glass of water.
“No. No.” Steve began again.
“Stevie isn’t built —”
He would have continued indefinitely in this strain, but Helen checked him with weary finality.
“Well, forget about it,” she said, “all of you.
Life’s too short.”
Life was.
At these moments, after battle, after all the confusion, antagonism, and disorder of their lives had exploded in a moment of strife, they gained an hour of repose in which they saw themselves with sad tranquillity.
They were like men who, driving forward desperately at some mirage, turn, for a moment, to see their footprints stretching interminably away across the waste land of the desert; or I should say, they were like those who have been mad, and who will be mad again, but who see themselves for a moment quietly, sanely, at morning, looking with sad untroubled eyes into a mirror.
Their faces were sad.
There was great age in them.
They felt suddenly the distance they had come and the amount they had lived.
They had a moment of cohesion, a moment of tragic affection and union, which drew them together like small jets of flame against all the senseless nihilism of life.
Margaret came in fearfully.
Her eyes were red, her broad German face white and tearful.