Suddenly, Eugene laughed. “He hates pain. I found that out today. He hates the kind of people from which he came, but even more, he hates to have them suffer. You think this is a paradox?”
“I did not say so, Eugene.” Alice’s voice was cold.
“Good,” said Eugene. “I didn’t really think you thought that. You see, Mr. Prescott has a long memory. He remembers what he suffered, himself, and he hates hunger and poverty and homelessness. Who was it who said that altruism is the supreme cowardice?”
“You, possibly,” answered Alice.
“Perhaps,” he admitted. “At any rate, it is a sound epigram.”
“I don’t suppose it has ever occurred to you,” said Alice, “that Mr. Prescott might be a good man, for all that he has done, and is doing?”
“You mean, the diamond in the rough, the heart of gold under the brutal exterior?” asked Eugene, with gentle derision. “Mother, that is sentimental. There are no good men. There are only men who are afraid. For themselves.”
Alice considered this. She said: “Eugene, there is a flaw in your reasoning. It is a perilous flaw. What you say strikes at everything that is noble in humanity, everything the philosophers and the priests have taught us, everything that is decent and self-sacrificing and heroic. You don’t think men are ever heroic, do you?”
“Certainly not,” replied Eugene.
Alice stood up, abruptly. Her son rose also. Alice turned to him, and her light eyes flashed. “You do not consider yourself egotistic, I suppose, Eugene.”
He seemed surprised. “Indeed I do not. Do you think so, Mother?”
She opened her pale lips to affirm this with a kind of vehemence unusual with her. Then she did not speak at all. Finally, after several long moments, she said in a drained voice: “No, Gene. You are not egotistic. I only wish you were.”
She turned away. “Dinner is ready,” she said. She went to the door. She said: “It is useless to try to persuade you not to go back to that place?”
“Quite useless.” Again, he seemed surprised. “I have a living to make, Mother. And I am not interested in law, or in anything but the lumber business.”
“Oh, Eugene,” she sighed, and left the room.
She returned to her kitchen and looked about her listlessly. Fatigue was heavy upon her, a fatigue of the heart and of the spirit. She leaned against a table, and so terrible was her despondency that for a few seconds she believed she was dying. And then she knew that she was terrified, and that all her life had been a useless thing, and that there was never a reason, not ever, for living.
PART THREE
“There are many loving parents in the world, but no loving children.”
CHINESE PROVERB
CHAPTER XXIX
Mrs. Ezra Bassett alighted from the carriage at the door of the Prescott house, and paused, as usual, to give it a furtive but approving glance. Ursula, and a few others of taste, might detest the house, but many, like Jemima Bassett, thought that a home ought to be as magnificent as possible. A house of restraint and of small proportions inspired in her the suspicion that the owner could probably afford no better.
The grounds were really splendid. The trees had gained enormously in height and girth, and the formal flower-beds and grounds, this delightful July day, testified to the skill and lavish tendencies of the Prescott gardeners. Ivy now covered two-thirds of the great swart house, throwing its tendrils about the tall high windows, draping the turrets and false towers and bays in a rippling robe of green. Some of the casements stood open to the warm and flowing breeze, and the glass shone and sparkled in the brilliant light. Stone walls and trees hid most of the neighboring houses, except for a distant chimney here and there, a glimpse of part of a brick or stone wall, the glitter of a far window. This section, once so desolate and despised, was now so exclusive that Schiller Road was banally called “Millionaires’ Row.” The mountains behind it, today luminous in violet light, were no longer clothed with virgin wood, and primeval. Studded with great houses, like those below on Schiller Road, they boasted private parks, winding roadways, and enormous estates. Toylike though they appeared from the Prescott house, one could realize the stately magnitude of their proportions. But none, either on Schiller Road, or on the mountainsides, could approach the Prescott house for grandeur, or, in Ursula’s opinion, awesome and majestic ugliness.
The day was hot and intensely still. The trees stood, pillars of shining green, held in afternoon sleep. The grounds had recently been watered; Mrs. Bassett was charmed by the scents of earth and grass and flowers. A robin or two pranced on the lawns, seeking worms, or fluttered over bird-baths. Nothing else moved. From a far distance came the muted and sleepy clamor of electric street-cars. Then, as this was late July, almost August, locusts suddenly broke into the silence with a long and singing cry of life.
The children were, apparently, spending the hotter hours of the day indoors, for Mrs. Bassett heard no shouts or calls or laughter. As she lifted the knocker on the door, a faint cloud appeared on Mrs. Bassett’s face. Children were children; she did not dislike them in the least. After all, she had two dear girls of her own, and the elder, now Mrs. Jenkins, had presented her mother with a grandson some six years ago. No, indeed, Mrs. Bassett really “loved” children, and “understood” them thoroughly, as she was fond of saying. But children could be very trying. The Prescott children could be more than trying.
John Shaeffer was no longer coachman to the Prescotts. He had been elevated to the position of butler. Grave, dignified and stern as ever, he led Mrs. Bassett into the house. She paused for a moment before a mirror in the hall to adjust her new wide hat, heavily weighted with pink velvet flowers and plumes, which gave her plump short figure a broad and squat appearance. But it was an elegant hat, and she admired it. She wore also her best summer suit, of dark-blue broadcloth, the skirt deeply folded, the bottom of the jacket flaring above it. Ruffles of lace appeared to hold up one of her two pink chins. She was a rosy matron, prosperous and respected, uncontested as the city’s arbitress of manners, deportment, proper behavior and modes. She was also still the only reliable source of gossip and discreet scandal.
Satisfied that every gray-blonde wave and curl was in place, and that nothing was disheveled in either her manner or appearance, Mrs. Bassett allowed herself to be conducted into the immense marble-walled parlor where her hostess awaited her. Mrs. Bassett, surprisingly enough, admired the florid ruby and green room, the gilt tables and obviously expensive draperies.
One swift glance told her, happily, that the deplorable Prescott children were not present. The rich room was very quiet. Ursula, sitting and embroidering near a large arched window, rose to greet her guest. Before even a word passed between the two ladies, Mrs. Bassett had inspected, and approved, Ursula’s green silk skirt and delicately embroidered white lawn shirtwaist with the high neck of lace, stiffly held upright by whalebone and fastened in the front by a small “sunburst” diamond brooch. Then a ripple of disapproval passed over Mrs. Bassett’s eyes. Ursula was not wearing the jacket of her suit. Certainly, the day was hot, but formalities ought to be observed in the presence of even one visitor.
“Dear Jemima,” said Ursula, coming forward and extending her hand. “How are you today?”
Mrs. Bassett’s words were colored by her thoughts. “Dear Ursula,” she murmured formally. She removed her glove; she took Ursula’s hand; the two ladies kissed. Mrs. Bassett allowed herself to be conducted to a chair near her hostess. The tea things were already arranged. The summer wind, soft as satin, blew in through the opened window. Slightly beyond, massed trees to some degree mitigated the heat. A long ripple of white ran over them as the wind passed. The room was full of light, too much light. It will fade all this lovely color, thought Mrs. Bassett. Ursula sat down and smiled upon her guest. Mrs. Bassett studied her acutely, but in such a proper manner that her glance appeared only casual. Ursula was really beginning to show her age, commented Mrs. Bassett to herself, pleasantly.
Of course, she had been an old maid when she had married, over ten years ago. She was nearly forty now. Certainly, after four children, she had kept her figure in the most amazing way. It was not the slenderness of youth, however. Rather, so ran Mrs. Bassett’s thoughts, it was the thinness of a woman who was chronically tired. And, no wonder, indeed, with such children!
During these reflections by Mrs. Bassett, the two ladies had been maintaining an agreeable flow of conversation concerning members of their families, their mutual friends, and the weather. They sipped hot tea in the vast hot room, ate daintily of the fine little wafers. Ursula would have preferred cold lemonade and an ice, but she knew that, despite the seasons, Mrs. Bassett clung grimly to the ritual of afternoon tea. If one succumbed more and more to casual innovations, then civilized deportment would soon be a thing of the past and barbarism would rush in upon one.
The windy sun invaded the room in shafts of blowing light; the trees tilted gently from side to side; the clock in the hall struck a decorous five. Ursula swallowed a yawn, smiled brightly, and asked an amiable question quite automatically. She thought, with longing, of the wooden swing under the trees in the garden, and the quite “impossible” novel by Marie Corelli. But she controlled her thoughts. After all, Jemima visited her for tea only once a month, as she did all her other friends. Some called it her “excursions in news-gathering.” It might well be so, Ursula thought. And why should I deny her this pleasure? Heaven knows, she garners no news from me.
Ursula was quite mistaken in this. Mrs. Bassett, of the keen eye and the quick, seeking mind, never left the Prescott house without new enormities to report, mostly about the children. She liked her tea in peace. Later, she welcomed the children, though not for the reasons normally expected.
Yes, Ursula was very thin. Her figure was good, yes. But then, there was quite a cascade of lawn and lace ruffles down what Mrs. Bassett circumspectly called Ursula’s “front.” Her color had always been very slight, but in her youth it had had a certain luminousness. Now she was wan. Her russet hair was still thick, and had kept its color, though still unfrizzed, and without the new pompadour now rapidly coming into fashion. All color had faded from her lips, which were slightly puckered, the corners somewhat tight in spite of her smiles.
Mrs. Bassett put her cup aside sedately on the table beside her, refused more tea. She said: “Ezra tells me that William is quite taken with that young person, Eugene Arnold. How remarkable that he should have—have been able so to win dear William’s confidence! Chief clerk! How charitable of William, and how very fortunate for young Mr. Arnold!”
Ursula winced at the old-fashioned phraseology of her friend. She said, with more pointedness in her voice than was customary: “Ezra—is quite right. Ezra was speaking of it only last week, when he came to have luncheon with William.” She paused. Her irritation subsided agreeably when she saw Mrs. Bassett’s eyebrows quirk.
Ursula went on: “And Eugene isn’t so very young anymore. How time passes! Weren’t you his godmother, Jemima? I seem to remember you were.”
Mrs. Bassett had turned a red to match the reddest sofa in the drawing-room. She said, stiffly: “Under the circumstances, dear Ursula, I felt relieved of my duties as godmother.”
Ursula smiled. She, too, put aside her cup. “Well, at any rate, you’ll be happy to know that William considers Eugene to be invaluable. He gives him a very large salary, and trusts him implicitly. Eugene is a very brilliant young man, and William has high hopes for him.”
“How very kind of William!” cried Mrs. Bassett, pressing the palms of her plump hands together. Her round face was still red.
“William is hardly ‘kind’ in the way you imply, Jemima,” said Ursula, consideringly. “Gene deserves William’s approval, you can be sure.”
“I trust so, indeed I do,” replied Mrs. Bassett. “After all, one must remember the—the father, my dear.”
Only the heat could have made Ursula’s vexation break through her usual poise. “Remember Chauncey? Why should one remember him? And, anyway, Jemima, Chauncey did not exactly rob a bank or murder anyone, or embezzle funds. His only crime was overconfidence in himself, and if that is indeed a crime then most of us are guilty of it.”
She paused. Mrs. Bassett stared at her, slowly blinking her eyes. She was truly shocked. Why, the man had failed, he had become a bankrupt, he had lost his house and his properties, he had lost his money! It was outrageous of Ursula to pretend that this was nothing.
“Of course, I know you are not serious, Ursula,” she said, gravely.
“Of course I am serious.” Ursula’s tired body crawled with irritation. “But it does not matter. Chauncey has been dead a long time. Eugene is alive. There is nothing of his father about him.”
“One should be grateful for that,” remarked Mrs. Bassett with significance. Ursula’s brows drew down. She did not reply. It was ridiculous that she should be defending Eugene Arnold, whom she disliked even more than before, though she received him politely whenever William brought him home to dinner, as a prelude to continued work in the library.
She said finally, looking at Mrs. Bassett with directness: “Eugene is very like his mother. You remember Alice, Jemima? She comes of one of the finest old families in Andersburg. My father used to say: ‘How Alice can endure the fat fools of Andersburg is beyond my understanding.’ But then, Papa had a high respect for race and tradition. One of his grandfathers had taught at Heidelberg. Literature, I believe. Papa was very proud of him.”
Mrs. Bassett smiled with innocent sweetness. “Really, dear? How very exciting. But weren’t your mother’s parents nice, good, sturdy farm-folk, and didn’t your papa’s father once own a butcher shop?”
Touche, thought Ursula. She could not help laughing, and now her anger was gone. She said: “That is quite right. But, as I said, one of my great-grandfathers taught literature at Heidelberg. I should have said that Papa and I were both proud of it, farm-folk and butchershop nonetheless.”
Mrs. Bassett felt that she had scored. “This is a new country, my dear, and one ought not to be too intolerant,” she said, with a pious air. “One cannot always pick one’s ancestors, though one can always do one’s best in one’s personal life.”
Ursula did not answer. She fanned herself with a palm-leaf fan. The clock struck half-past five. In a few moments, please God, Jemima would be gone.
Mrs. Bassett heard the clock strike, also. Where were those intolerable children? The house was very quiet. Perhaps they had gone for a drive. Mrs. Bassett was disappointed. Her eyes wandered about, vaguely. Then she noticed that something was missing. Between two great high arched windows there had once stood a tall and slender column of marble on which a small and exquisite Psyche had been poised in an attitude of imminent flight. William and Ursula had purchased it in Italy, only three years ago, when they had gone abroad for Ursula’s health. It was a treasure; it had cost a fortune. Even Mrs. Bassett, who could not look at its nakedness without blushing, knew that it was priceless.
“Dear me,” she said. “Have you taken the Psyche away, Ursula? Of course, it was lovely, but so very, very—frank, if I may say so without offending you. And children in the house, too”
Ursula looked quickly at the vacant spot, and a desolate expression tightened her mouth. The statue, itself, had been only eighteen inches high, but had been chiselled so beautifully, and with so much detail, even to the tiny marble veins on the marvelous little hands, that it caught the eye and entranced it. Though it was there no longer, Ursula could see the flowing and delicate glory of the small white body, nude and airy, the carved, outspread wings that almost seemed to flutter, the flow of lifted hair, the eager and radiant smile on the translucent face, the outspread, welcoming arms. When she had first seen it, she had been moved to tears, for she knew that innocence had been caught here in all its shining grandeur.
“There was an accident—the other day,” she said, and her voice was muffled as if with grief.
“An acci
dent? How unfortunate, dear Ursula! It was so delightful.” Mrs. Bassett paused. “A stupid servant, of course,” she suggested, sympathetlcally.
“No, it was me!” said a loud boastful voice almost at her elbow. “And it was a silly old thing, and I don’t care, either. Matt was painting it, and he’s a silly old thing, too, and I pushed him, and he fell into it, and there it was, all smashed to smithereens!”
The voice broke into a roar of laughter. Mrs. Bassett turned sharply, to see at her side the most intolerable of the Prescott children: Thomas.
CHAPTER XXX
Ursula jumped quickly to her feet, flushed, and grim of lip. But her voice was controlled when she said to her son: “Tommy, I did not give you permission to come in here today, when I have a guest. Go back to your rooms immediately, and stay there until dinner.”
The boy spread his legs far apart, put his big square hands akimbo, and glared derisively at his mother. His narrow brown eyes squinted at Ursula, radiated hatred. “Pa said we can come down here any time we want to. He said, and you know he said it, that the whole house belongs to us, and that he built it for us, not for you or him. It’s mine. It’s ours. We can do what we want to, any time and you can’t stop us. You and your old silly statue!”
Mrs. Bassett gasped with happy enjoyment, though she was careful to put a horrified expression on her features. She disliked, and with excellent reason, all the Prescott children, but she disliked Thomas the most. She always referred to him to her husband as “that loutish boy.” Certainly, the adjective was not too unjust. Thomas was very tall now, much taller than other boys of nine. The massive thickness of his rough brown hair made him look even larger than he was. Moreover, because he was broad and muscular and active, he gave the appearance of a maturity beyond his years. Mrs. Bassett considered him very ugly. His features, though so blunt and broad, that thick and heavy mouth, were not in themselves ugly. It was their brutality, their arrogance, and his physical lack of grace, which made Thomas appear unattractive, even to those who did not dislike children. His ruddy cheeks, coarse and sown with freckles, testified to a natural boyish health.
Let Love Come Last Page 27
