He looked at his mother now, and laughed with crude insolence. He repeated goadingly: “Silly old statue. Anyway, I can stay if I want to.” He looked at Mrs. Bassett with an evil glint in his eye. “That’s an awful hat. Why do you wear such awful hats? That’s a girl’s hat, not an old lady’s.”
“Let them be honest and without hypocrisy,” William had said. “Let them express their real convictions, without fear.”
Ursula said in a quiet and level tone: “Thomas, apologize immediately to Mrs. Bassett.” She stood near the boy. Her first flush had faded; she was very pale. He stared back at her, mockingly. Then, as she did not look aside, as she fixed him with her eyes, as she betrayed no shock and no uncertainty, he glanced away, thrust out his lower lip sullenly.
“You wouldn’t dare tell me to do that if Pa was here,” he said, in his loud, grating voice. “But Pa’s in Michigan, and you think you can do what you want. I’ll tell him when he gets back.”
“Thomas,” repeated Ursula, “we are waiting for your apology.”
He lifted his great heavy boot and kicked viciously at the leg of a table. He looked at Mrs. Bassett with deep enmity. “All right, then, I apologize. But it don’t mean nothing.”
“It means that you were a boor and a young fool, without manners or decency,” said Ursula. She turned to Mrs. Bassett. “I apologize for my son,” she said. Her voice broke a little with her deep shame and wretchedness. “He knows no better. He is very young.”
Mrs. Bassett’s enjoyment had been considerably reduced by Thomas’ reference to her hat and by his designation of her as an “old lady.” Her cheeks were hot. She did not reply graciously to the boy’s apology. She said to Ursula, with stateliness: “Yes, Ursula, I realize he knows no better.”
“I do too!” cried Thomas, infuriated. “Only Pa says we can tell the truth any time we want to!”
Ursula gazed at him with intense bitterness. She knew Thomas for the liar he was. She said: “Go back to your playrooms, Tommy, with the others.”
“I won’t!” he cried. He clenched his fists, lowered at his mother. “This is our house. We can do what we want to here, and you can’t stop us.” Now his attention was taken by the salver of little cakes. He reached out a big meaty hand, seized several of the cakes, crammed them into his mouth. Over them, he regarded his mother with hating triumph. He crunched loudly.
No one heard a light step approaching, but Ursula, feeling a slight familiar movement in the air, saw that Oliver had entered. Her tense face softened. She put her hand on the shoulder of the very tall twelve-year-old boy who had reached her side. “Oliver, my dear,” she murmured.
Oliver bowed to Mrs. Bassett. She inclined her head very slightly. The Prescott children were Prescotts, after all, no matter how odious. But this was a boy of ambiguous ancestry, an orphan, a nobody, lifted from a doorstep. Oliver turned to Ursula. He smiled gently. “I didn’t know that Tommy had left upstairs,” he said, with apology. “I was helping Matt with something.” He said to Thomas, quietly: “Come on, Tommy. We’re starting to build a bridge, and we need your help.”
Thomas crunched unconcernedly, as if he had not heard. He helped himself to more cakes.
“Go with your brother, Tommy,” said Ursula.
Thomas crunched with deliberate slowness. He said: “He isn’t my brother. He’s only an orphan. I don’t have to mind him. He ought to be glad we let him live here.”
Ursula’s self-control was always commended in Andersburg. Now, reckless of Mrs. Bassett, and stung to the heart by her son’s brutishness, she lifted her hand and boxed Thomas’ ears soundly. “You dreadful boy!” she exclaimed, and struck him again.
“Please, Mama,” begged Oliver.
His words were drowned by Thomas’ sudden howl of rage and pain. He clenched his fists and rushed at his mother. Oliver held out a hand, caught him by the shoulder, and held him. “Tommy,” he said.
The boy struggled to release himself. He was so big and so heavy that it seemed a simple thing for him to twist away from Oliver, who was so slender and without obvious muscle. But, miraculously, he could not free himself. He swung his fists impotently, his head lowered like that of a charging bull.
Really! thought Mrs. Bassett. How can Ursula allow that boy to treat her son like that, as if he had the right! Why, he’s no better than a servant, and ought to know his place. She sniffed, turned about in her chair in order to see better.
“Tommy,” repeated Oliver, while Thomas stopped his howling long enough to draw a more vigorous breath.
“I’ll tell my pa,” sobbed Thomas. “He isn’t your pa. He’ll do something to you, you see!”
Oliver removed his hand. He did not appear disturbed. He put his arm about Ursula’s waist; he could feel her trembling. His arm tightened. “Tommy doesn’t mean it,” he said, consolingly.
Mrs. Bassett gazed at him with disfavor. She studied the young unruffled face with its dark clear skin, the shining dark eyes, the smooth black hair and kind mouth. Though Mrs. Bassett’s expression was all disapproval, she was happy. The day had not been wasted after all.
There was a loud and thunderous clatter on the marble stairs in the hall, and the rest of the Prescott children burst into the room in a very riot of noise and shouting. But the voices were feminine, the running legs were feminine, also. The boy who brought up the rear was silent, and he moved more slowly than the others.
“Tommy!” shouted eight-year-old Julia. “Why, there you are, you pig! When you promised to help us build the bridge! And here you are, stuffing yourself, you horrible thing!”
“Pig!” repeated little Barbara, six years old.
“You always run away if there is any work,” said Thomas’ twin, Matthew, accusingly. He had a low hesitant voice, but it could be as withering as a louder one.
The girls snatched at the rest of the cakes, pushed them into their mouths. They stared at Mrs. Bassett boldly, without even the rudest of greetings. Nor did Matthew greet her. He was looking with concentration at his mother, and at Oliver, who stood by her side. His still blue eyes contracted a trifle. Mrs. Bassett thought him “well-favored,” though just a little “girlish.” He always seemed to efface himself, not out of shyness but with a kind of deliberate aloofness as if he disdained present company.
Matthew continued to regard his mother and Oliver inscrutably. He did not speak. After several long moments, he turned away indifferently, wandered to the spot where the lovely statue had stood. For an instant, pain wrinkled his forehead. He went to a window, looked out silently, and did not move again. The room might have been empty, for all he seemed to care. He was rapt in some withdrawal, a thing which Ursula always felt was dangerous. Ignoring both her guest and her children, even Oliver, she started towards Matthew instinctively, exclaiming: “Matthew, my dear!”
He looked over his shoulder at her, and said politely: “Yes, Mama?”
She stopped at once. “Nothing,” she murmured, confusedly.
Then she put a smile on her face, went back to the little girls. Julia glared at her defiantly, put another cake into a mouth already filled almost to capacity. “Julie, your manners,” said Ursula sternly.
Julia mumbled something. Barbara shrilled: “She’s taking all the cakes! Pig! Pig!” The child slapped her sister’s grasping hand vigorously, pushed it aside, snatched at a cake, the last one. Thomas was not sobbing now. He had planted himself at a little distance. He scowled at his sisters, his brother, Oliver, Ursula, and Mrs. Bassett, in turn.
My children! thought Ursula. My dear children!
There were times when she felt that she hated her children. It took all her common-sense, all her courage, to tell herself that she was unfair, that they had been molded to this horrible shape by her husband, that what they were was his doing.
Barbara, in conduct, was little better than her brothers and sister; her manners were as disgusting, her rudeness as open. But there were times when Barbara’s little face had a sober and considering expressio
n, when she looked with young disgust at the others. Moreover, she was fond of Oliver, at least at intervals. Her mass of waving hair, which fell to her waist, was almost as dark as his, and she had fine gray eyes, the color of William’s but much larger, and very clear and radiant with intelligence. Her sister, Julia, was considered the beauty of the family, with her curling auburn hair, her amber eyes—the color of Ursula’s—caught in a tangle of russet lashes, her full mouth as brilliant as a rose. Julia, too, was tall for her age, had a wonderful gracefulness of movement and gesture, and her laugh was musical and impish.
With a weak smile, Ursula said to Mrs. Bassett: “They have such high spirits.” She was quoting William. Mrs. Bassett moved her head significantly. “It is Julie’s and Barbara’s governess’ day off, and Lucy is still nursing a broken arm,” went on Ursula, apologetically, praying that her guest would go at once. “And Nancy is getting their tea, and Mrs. Templeton had gone to town on an errand. So they have got a little out of hand, I am afraid.”
Julia flounced her frilled skirts. “I’m not out of hand!” she shouted. “And Tommy and I can have all the cakes we want. Papa says we can always have what we want. He says it’s bad for us not to. You know he said that, Mama.” She stared at Ursula with scornful accusation.
Why did not Jemima Bassett go? Why did she sit there, though the clock had struck six some time ago? Desperately, Ursula willed her to leave. But Mrs. Bassett was engrossed with the children, Matthew staring listlessly through the windows; Thomas glaring at everybody in turn, his head bent; Julia defying her mother; and Barbara thoughtfully licking her fingers. Mrs. Bassett ignored Oliver, standing beside Ursula.
Julia’s attention was attracted to the guest. She widened her eyes impudently at Mrs. Bassett. “I don’t like Jimmie,” she announced disdainfully, referring to Mrs. Bassett’s adored grandson. “He cries all the time. When we visited him at Mrs. Jenkins’, he just sat on his mama’s knee and cried. Just like a baby.”
Mrs. Bassett colored with outrage. Ursula said sharply: “Don’t be rude, Julie. You are too old for that.”
Thomas forgot his sullen rage to shout: “Yah, a baby! He wets. He wet all over Mrs. Jenkins’ best sofa.” He burst into raucous laughter. He was joined by Julia, who screamed with mirth. Thomas added derisively: “He’s too old to wet. He’s as old as Barbie.” He turned to his younger sister, whom he disliked heartily. “Barbie, do you wet, like Jimmie?” Again he laughed. “Barbie wets! Yah, just like Jimmie Jenkins!”
Aghast at this libel, Barbara shrieked: “I do not! I’m not a baby like that silly Jimmie Jenkins. I hate you, Tom Prescott!” She ran at her brother, her hands outstretched to grasp him. But, shouting with fresh laughter, he evaded her. He leapt over a chair; he jumped high on a sofa; he rushed into a table, upon which a priceless oxblood lamp immediately began to rock dangerously. Barbara pursued him. Julia, screaming her delight, joined the chase. The children were now swarming all over the room, the girls’ skirts flying, Thomas, in his navy-blue sailor suit, leaping a few paces ahead. Matthew still stood by the window; he did not turn at the sounds of clamor. But Oliver looked at the desperate Ursula. She nodded, briefly.
Oliver went into action. He ran swiftly after Thomas, caught and held him. He smiled down at the boy, who was again infuriated. “Come on, Tommy,” he said, in his quiet voice. “It’s time for our supper. And then we can finish the bridge.”
Thomas struggled a moment, impotently. The girls rushed up, stopped. “He swore!” cried Barbara with delight. “Mama, Tommy said a bad word to Oliver. A real bad word.”
“A real bad word,” echoed Julia, with pride. She tossed back her auburn curls, and threw Ursula a malicious glance. Then her pretty face changed, and she tugged at Oliver’s hands, which were restraining her brother. “You leave him alone, Oliver. You leave my brother alone. He isn’t your brother. He’s mine.” She kicked Oliver in the right knee. He looked down at her sternly.
“Stop it, Julie,” he said in a peremptory voice. Amazingly, she fell back. Barbara stood and looked at him. She began to play with the ruffles of her pinafore, but her eyes did not leave Oliver, who had again directed his attention to Thomas.
“Come on, Tommy,” he urged. He took the boy’s arm, and half-dragged, half-led, him towards the door. Julia followed him like an angry dog, protesting. Barbara followed also, still watching Oliver. The procession left the room, Tommy crying his defiance and threatening his adopted brother, Julia still expostulating. No one saw Matthew drift out by another entrance.
Mrs. Bassett had often seen quite a good deal in this house. But today the odious Prescott children had surpassed themselves. Replete, she smiled at Ursula affectionately. “As you said, my dear, they have such high spirits.”
Ursula could say nothing. She was humiliated and ashamed and full of bitterness. She accompanied her guest to the door. Mrs. Bassett’s carriage had been waiting for a considerable time.
“Next Tuesday, then,” said Mrs. Bassett, referring to her monthly tea. “And in the meantime, dear, do rest yourself. You seem so tired.”
CHAPTER XXXI
William listened in his usual dark and obdurate silence while Ursula recited the story of the children’s recent mortifying conduct in the presence of Mrs. Bassett. He sat and stared into space with that dull and earthy expression of his which she had come to hate, because it told her that he was completely resistive, completely unconvinced, and had no intention of regarding her complaints seriously. But despair drove her to a full recital.
Even when she had finished, he said nothing. A heavy summer rain was falling. It drummed against the windows of Ursula’s sitting-room. The sky lowered overhead, thick and gray and heavy. A spectral and insubstantial dimness filled the room. She had always disliked this enormous house; now she was beginning to hate it with a kind of illogical passion. From her chair she could see the drowned earth, the rushing wet trees, dark green against the somber clouds, and the crushed flower-beds. The air was hot, but Ursula was cold, with mingled rage and impotence.
She had submitted too much; she had allowed him almost entire control over the children. If they were ruined, now, she was not guiltless, she told herself bitterly. She could think no longer of just herself and William. Her hope of true union must be abandoned. The terrible destruction of her children must be halted, even at the expense of her own marriage.
He moved ponderously in his chair. The pale light glinted on the white at his temples; it exaggerated the weighty sullenness of his face.
“I don’t understand you, Ursula,” he said, in his loud, harsh voice. “But I do understand one thing. You don’t like our children.”
Ursula lifted her hands, let them drop back lifelessly into her lap. “Oh, William,” she said. He did not answer. She tried to make her voice resolute again: “How can you say that? It is because I love them so dearly that I am terrified for them.”
Again he moved, and this time it was a quicker movement. “You admit you struck Tommy. I have asked you again and again not to do that, Ursula. Brutality never helped to control a child. They have their rights. You are always talking about being ‘civilized’. Is it civilized to strike a child and make it suffer bodily? After all, a child cannot strike back.”
Oh, my God, thought Ursula hopelessly. She had no words.
William went on, triumphant because of her silence. “You struck him because he reminded Oliver that we are not his parents. That is true. Is a child to be injured because he tells the truth?”
Ursula was losing control of herself. “You choose to take a distorted view of the whole thing. Tommy was not just ‘telling the truth’; he was trying to wound and shame Oliver. Besides, Tommy is no sturdy advocate of truth. You have caught him in lies, yourself.”
“He has a very active imagination,” said William. “All children lie, and the more imagination they have the more fantasies they indulge in. It is a vicious thing to injure a child because he uses his imagination a little too much.”
&n
bsp; “Tommy,” said Ursula, in a shaking voice, “has no imagination at all, except for cruelty. From the very beginning he has been crafty and mean.”
“No natural and loving mother would speak so of a child of hers!” cried William, furiously.
“I am a mother, but I am not blind, William. My love for my children will never blind me to their faults. With the right sort of teaching and discipline Tommy might have learned to suppress these traits of his.” She paused. “You approve of him hurting Oliver like that?”
Again William moved, and this time he was uneasy. “Nonsense,” he said. “Children do things which often outrage adults. They outgrow them. Give the boy time.”
Ursula said nothing. William went on, with more and more confidence: “As for what Tommy said to Jemima Bassett, that is a trivial thing. Children are honest and open; they haven’t learned to be hypocrites and to conceal their feelings. If Tommy found Jemima’s hat ridiculous, he was only expressing his childish dislike of it, and nothing else.”
“Again, you miss the point, William. Tommy has been taught, repeatedly, that he must be polite. He was not being ‘honest’, in his remarks about Jemima’s hat. His intention was to humiliate Jemima.”
William said accusingly: “You haven’t forgiven him about that statue. That is the real thing behind what you say about the poor child.”
“Oh, William,” said Ursula, wearily.
“You object to them ‘swarming’ all over the house, as you say. I’ve told you before, Ursula, that I built this house for my children. It is theirs, and theirs only. I want them to be free in every corner of the house. Let them romp anywhere; let them do as they wish. If they are kept, like prisoners, in certain parts of the house, they will feel restrained, unwanted, unloved. What if they do break a few things? We can replace them easily enough. Besides, they are curious. How can they learn about things otherwise?” He looked at the pale and silent Ursula, and again he moved uneasily. “I’m sorry about the statue. I—liked it, too. But it was an accident, even if Tommy did push Matt into it deliberately. He did not have any intention of destroying the statue.”
Let Love Come Last Page 28
