The Rich Are Different by Susan Howatch

Author:Susan Howatch [Howatch, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-6343-3
Published: 2012-09-09T22:31:00+00:00

VI

I stopped speaking. Some journalist wrote later that I had spoken for eight minutes. I felt as if I had been speaking for eight hours. When I stopped, the silence was not only audible but thundering in my ears. I groped my way down from the lectern, and as the organ began to play the English hymn “Jerusalem” I felt Sylvia’s hand seek mine.

I hadn’t heard that hymn since I was in England. It was a damned odd hymn and I’d always wondered what the hell it meant, but now as the voices of the choir soared to the rafters I knew I was in the presence of some idealistic vision, all the more romantic for being incomprehensible, and I saw again the hidden side of Paul, the side he had tried to conceal even from those closest to him. Listening to that hymn which he himself had chosen, I felt as if some line had opened up between us, and my thoughts streamed out to meet him. I was watching some distant point above the altar. I neither moved nor spoke, but in my head I was talking to Paul, apologizing for not taking immediate action against his murderers, telling him I was putting the bank first, just as he would have wished.

Sylvia was crying. I put an arm around her and drew her to me.

The service ended. Eventually a few people started to move. The sun shone through one of the windows. After a while I found I was standing in the aisle while people clustered around to shake my hand.

My partners looked wiped out. Even Lewis’ Hollywood profile seemed dented, and Charley Blair was unable to speak as he wrung my hand. Clay was like a ghost, Martin was endlessly polishing his misted glasses, and Walter was like an old, old man who has lived too long and seen too much.

I had to break away from them to attend to Sylvia. After days of unnatural calm she had at last broken down completely.

“Leave this to me, Steven,” said Caroline competently, but Sylvia had already turned to Paul’s niece Mildred and there was nothing Caroline could do.

We fought our way outside. It was a battle every inch of the way to our car and when we finally crawled inside we were on the verge of collapse. Halfway uptown to the Van Zale mansion Caroline was able to say, “Steven, I didn’t know you had it in you. I’ve never been so proud of anyone in all my life.”

We held hands tightly. All I could say was, “That hymn ‘Jerusalem.’ ”

“Darling, don’t remind me. I feel on the verge of complete and utter disintegration. God only knows how Sylvia must feel—I expect she’ll have to be hospitalized.”

There was to be a small reception at Paul’s house for the family, the partners and their wives, and within minutes of our arrival we were feeling better. In his minutely detailed instructions for the funeral Paul, smart to the last, had ordered the very best champagne to be served to his mourners.

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