Oliver stood up; he moved to her side. She felt something threatening about him, something demanding. This, too, she recognized, and she shrank away trom him. “Mother,” said Oliver, “you must tell me. I have to know. It’s the most important thing in life to me. I have to verify it. I must know what you mean. Whom do I resemble?”
She tried to draw away from him, but he put his hand upon her shoulder. “Don’t, Oliver!” she cried. “I can’t bear it! I can’t bear even to suspect that you are like—him!”
“Who, Mother?” asked Oliver. “If you know anything, you’ve got to tell me. I can’t go on this way. If you don’t tell me, I’ll leave this city forever. It’s that bad.”
She tried to escape him in false anger. “How could you think that of William? If you were his son, he’d not be afraid to acknowledge it. He loves his children. He’d never have treated you so—”
“Who, Mother?” repeated Oliver. She knew he did not quite believe her. She felt his terrible anxiety, held in control, but insistent. This was an Oliver she did not know.
She put her fingers to her lips. She looked over them at him. “Eugene Arnold,” she whispered.
He dropped his hand from her shoulder. He stood very still beside her. The coals dropped loudly in the grate. Oliver stared at the darkening window. Moving slowly but steadily, he went to a lamp, lit it. He lifted it from its table. He carried it to the long pier mirror at the end of the room. He held it high and looked at himself, looked at his face from every angle, and then looked the full length of his figure. Ursula watched him, her fingers still covering her mouth.
Without speaking, he carried the lamp back to the table. He put it down. He walked back to his chair. He sat down and regarded the fire steadily. “Yes,” he said.
“No, no!” cried Ursula. “It’s just my imagination. You mustn’t believe it, Oliver.”
“It is not my imagination,” said Oliver. The grimness had left his face. It remained dark and somber, but he was smiling a little. “I can see it. It may disgust you; but I’m glad. I’m glad for me and Barbie.”
He looked at Ursula then. “I never told you, but I’ve been trying to find out for nearly two years. You see, I’ve always loved Barbie. But I knew it was impossible, if there were any chance that I was really her brother. You don’t know what you’ve done for me, Mother.”
She was incredulous. She could only stammer: “You don’t care? You won’t try to find out anything more?”
“I don’t care, no. But I’ll go on trying to find out. I’m a lawyer; there are ways.”
“But—if you are convinced—and I’m sure we’re talking nonsense—why should you try to find out?” implored Ursula.
For a few moments, he did not answer. He had never lied to Ursula. He had sometimes evaded, to spare her pain. But now he must lie to her, to assuage her frantic distress. He made himself smile lightly at her. “You’re quite right, Mother. I’ll drop the whole thing. I think we’re just a little worked up.”
She sighed deeply. If she made the effort, she thought, she might, in time, push the appalling thought from her mind. She might forget it. She might even convince herself that it was absurd.
Now I have even more incentive to find out the whole thing, and as soon as possible, said Oliver to himself. He knew all about Eugene Arnold; for a long time he had been looking for a weapon to use against him.
“He’s been here so often,” said Ursula, in a strained voice. “And children imitate. You’ve seen him for years. You have most likely imitated him, without knowing it.”
“Of course,” said Oliver, indulgently. He made himself sound amused. “There’s nothing to it at all.”
Now that she had chained this terror, at least for a time, Ursula had another thought. “Barbie,” she said, incredulously. “You said you loved Barbie, Oliver. But Barbie—”
Oliver held up his hand. “You never really look at Barbie, Mother. I know what she is. Try ‘looking’ at her, dear. I love her, you see. And if she’ll have me, I’ll marry her.”
His mind is at rest, thought Ursula. “I’ll ‘look’ at Barbie, darling. I’ve always thought her a selfish and hard young thing.” She paused. She was suddenly filled with joy and apprehension, joy that Oliver by this marriage would become more her son, and apprehension about William. “But Barbie’s only seventeen.”
“You mean that Father wouldn’t have it,” he said.
Ursula was silent. All the joy left her.
“Mother,” said Oliver, “I know how it is with you, about Father. You’ll do anything, now, even sacrifice your children, to save him pain, and possibly, as you think, to save his life. But I want Barbie. You’ve got to think about us, too. I’m not going to give up Barbie for anyone.”
This was a new Oliver. The old Oliver had always retreated, abandoned his position, in order to spare others. This was an Oliver like Eugene Arnold.
“Wait,” she begged.
“Of course. As you said, Mother, Barbie is only seventeen. When she is past eighteen, we must do something about it.”
In a year, a thousand things could happen to save William this pain. Barbara wanted to go away to school. Perhaps it could be managed. The girl was still very young. If she went away, she might forget.
“You won’t speak to Barbie, Oliver?” Ursula was too eager, too desperate. Oliver understood at once. He lied again: “Not if you don’t want it.”
She had always trusted him. She trusted him once more. William would never give his consent to a marriage between Barbara and Oliver. Something would happen to arrange things. In the meantime, William would be spared.
She said, trying to be casual and pleasant: “William asked not to be awakened for tea. Will you have it here with me? Just the two of us, near the fire?”
He was only too glad, he said. For the first time, he remembered Matthew. This was something else to be settled.
The tea was brought in on a tray. Ursula, with over half a century of tact and poise behind her, with a long training in the suppressing of open miseries and emotions, busied herself over the tray, remarked to the maid on the appetizing appearance of the cakes and the perfection of the tea, poured for herself and Oliver, and forced herself to be quite composed.
She was still shaken. Even while she talked calmly and affectionately to Oliver, she could not repress her fear and foreboding. But she had learned to control them, to refuse to think when thinking brought only anguish. By this method, she had salvaged at least a small part of her marriage. She had saved, not her children, as she had once promised herself she must do, but William, who was so infinitely more to her than any child.
Under cover of the pleasant tea-hour, Oliver watched Ursula with pity and complete awareness. He wondered how he could bring up the subject of Matthew. Ursula had had all the shocks she could bear today. But he had given a promise, and he was now beginning to see Matthew clearly again.
Oliver was not a devious man, but he saw he had to be devious now. He put down his tea-cup. He said, in an interested tone: “I went in to see Matt, just before I came here, to thank him for that wonderful miniature.”
“Yes. It was chosen with such taste,” said Ursula. Her poor haggard face lightened, its habitual mournfulness lifted by her smile.
Oliver leaned back in his chair and looked at the fire thoughtfully. “I wonder why he never went on with his painting? After we came back from Italy, three years ago, he began to paint furiously. Then it died away.”
Ursula set her cup on the tray. She said nothing; she stared at the cup and the mournfulness was again on her lowered eyelids.
“He ought to go to Italy again,” said Oliver, almost carelessly. “In fact, I suggested it to him.”
“Perhaps next summer,” murmured Ursula.
Oliver turned to her. She felt the movement, and glanced up at him. “I think,” said Oliver resolutely, “that next summer will be too late. He ought to go now. At once.”
“That is impossible, Oliver. What are
you talking about? He returns to Princeton after the New Year. Oliver, dear, you talk very extravagantly, as if it were a matter of life and death.”
“It is,” said Oliver, seriously. “No, Mother, I’m not joking. I’ve talked to Matthew.”
“But you had no right to suggest that he just pack up and go to Italy, now!” cried Ursula, with some temper. “You always had such good sense. I don’t understand you, my dear.”
Oliver saw that he had made an error. But he stood by it. He leaned towards Ursula, and again his clasped hands dropped between his knees. Ursula shrank, closed her eyes.
“Mother,” he went on, “we’ve got to think of something much more important just now than his present studies. We’ve got to think of Matthew, himself. I am not talking extravagantly when I say that for him it is a matter of life and death. Haven’t you noticed that his lassitude is worse than ever this Christmas, that he looks frightfully ill? I tried to arouse him. It was only when we spoke of Italy that he came briefly to life. Perhaps it won’t work. But it is worth trying, for his sake.”
Ursula’s maternal instinct stirred vaguely and dimly. She remembered Matthew as he had appeared to her during the holiday. But then the thought of William intruded, and she shook her head, less in denial than in wretchedness.
“I still think you are extravagant,” she said. “Even if you aren’t, there’s nothing I can do. His father wouldn’t allow it, just now. Perhaps next summer. Yes, it will be all right next summer.”
“Now,” said Oliver. “And not for a few weeks or even months. For years, perhaps.” He went on, more gently: “For years, if he wants. We can’t move too fast to save him. Mother, you may be angry, but I’ve told him that I’ll give him the money I’ve saved, if no one else will help him. But surely you won’t refuse to help him?”
Oliver continued: “Robert Louis Stevenson has said: ‘An aim in life is the only fortune worth the finding.’ Perhaps Matthew will never have an aim in life. It may be too late now. But it’s worth trying. You know I’m telling you the truth.”
“William will refuse, whatever I say,” whispered Ursula. “Don’t you know it’s no use my ever talking to him about the children? He’ll never let his children go; he’ll hold them to him forever!” Now she spoke aloud, wildly. “He’ll never let them go! And to try to take one from him would be to kill part of him. I can’t let that happen. They have made him unhappy enough; they owe something to him, though he’s never allowed them to believe it or know it. I’ll fight any one of them who tries to hurt him; he’s suffered enough!”
Oliver stood up. He went to the window and looked out at the darkness. “I understand,” he said quietly. “I know how you feel, Mother. But there is something else for you to think of: Suppose Matthew—dies? Suppose he dies under the most awful circumstances? Will Father be happier then? Or won’t he die also?”
Ursula sprang to her feet. She ran to Oliver, caught him by the arm and turned him to her. “Oh, Oliver, how dare you! Oliver, what do you mean? Why do you look at me so strangely! Oh, my God, what do you mean, Oliver?”
He put his hand very gently over the clutching hand on his arm. “Mother, I’m not going to try to soothe you with half-truths. I must tell you the whole truth. When I went into his room, Matthew was thinking. He was thinking of death. I know he was. It was in his face.” Ursula snatched her hand away from Oliver’s. “You are torturing me,” she said, and her voice was hardly audible.
“Mother, have you ever, for years, really looked at your children? I know that since Father was ill a year ago you haven’t seen them at all. They don’t exist for you. Yet they have an existence. In Matt’s case it is dangerously threatened. And so, Father is threatened. I’m not talking foolishly. I know.”
She went back to her chair, walking heavily, like an old woman. She fell into it. She huddled herself together, as if mortally cold. She stared into space. Oliver was right; she never saw the children any more. But now she saw Matthew. She shivered strongly.
Oliver came towards her. “I know you have very little influence upon Father,” he said, compassionately. “If you talked to him about Matthew, he wouldn’t listen to you. All I want from you is a promise to help Matthew, with money, with encouragement, with every impulse of affection you can muster up for him. Urge him to go, no matter what his father says.”
“No one ever listens to me—ever,” muttered Ursula, dully. “Matthew won’t listen—”
“He will.” Oliver was all pity. “Don’t be too upset. Father will probably let Matt go at once, when Matt asks him. You’ll probably have no need to do anything.”
“He’ll never let the children go. Never,” repeated Ursula.
She thrust out her hands, as if to push Oliver off. The gesture was frantic. “Please go away. Please leave me alone,” she pleaded. “I must think, Oliver. Forgive me, but you must go.”
She was alone, and the room was dark. It was cold, despite the fire. The winter wind beat at the windows. She was alone. I have always been alone, she thought, I have four children, and I am alone. I have a husband whom I have never really had. I sacrificed my children for him, just as he has sacrificed himself for them. We have nothing. William, William, my darling, we have nothing, either of us, nothing at all.
CHAPTER XLIII
William Prescott sat alone in his great florid marble drawing-room, reading an accumulation of financial journals which had collected during the holiday and the two days before. At each end of the room the mighty fireplaces blazed with logs, but the center of the room was cold. There was no “happy gathering” of girls and young men about him. He knew that his daughters and his sons had no engagements tonight; he had hoped, as he had never ceased to hope through the years, that they would come to him, sit about him and laugh with him affectionately. This had never happened; but this did not prevent him from believing it would happen, on some future night. He had deceived himself to such an extent that he was actually convinced he had memories of such gatherings—in earlier years, or even recently.
Sometimes, when he sat there, Ursula would sit with him at a little distance, reading or embroidering by the light of an immense ox-blood lamp. He rarely spoke to her, or she to him. He would brood sullenly over his papers, while her eyeglasses caught the light. All at once, it came to him that she had not sat with him in this room for a long time. Irritated, feeling considerably abused, not by his children, but by his wife, he rattled his papers. He would not admit to his loneliness. He would never admit to himself that he had famished longings and sadnesses and heavy deep despairs. His children were perfect; they knew he was busy; they would not disturb him. He had only to reach out and pull the bell-rope to summon a servant who would call his children to him. He looked at the rope, but his chilly hand did not move.
The grandeur of the flaming room lay in vast silences about him; he could hear the far crackling of the fires. All the lamps were lit, casting shadows on the veined marble walls, the half-pillars, the green and red sofas, the brilliant rugs. The arched windows rattled very faintly under the assaults of the winter wind; the scarlet draperies stirred. There was no other sound. He might have been alone in the mighty house which he had built for the joy and pride of his children—and which was so empty.
Sometimes words or thoughts caught him unawares, like savage animals striking suddenly from the depths of a friendly forest. Empty! He sat upright in his chair. He was a fool. The house was not empty. It was filled with his children.
Yet the emptiness spread about him like a desert. It was silly of him to be selfish, to want his children just now. After all, he was getting old, and his children had their own pursuits. Nevertheless, he looked expectantly at the wide arching stairways. Lamplight glimmered on vacancies, untenanted, beyond them. Now his loneliness was like a tearing sickness in his flesh. Every lamp illuminated barrenness.
Empty, said the wind against the windows. He had known loneliness before, in his outraged and bitter childhood. He had thought it gone forever.
It was here again with him, infinitely enlarged, infinitely more terrible.
Once more he looked at the bell-rope. But still he did not touch it. Now he said to himself: Why don’t I reach for it? I’ve only to stretch out my hand. With a rattling sound the papers fell from his knees, and he jumped as if in great and sudden terror. My nerves, he said to himself. It is only my nerves. I have worked too hard. How can I be such a fool? I love my children; it is only natural that they should love me in return. I have given my whole life to them; if I ask it, they would give me a little of their time. But I have no right to ask it; their lives are their own.
He forced himself to remember how he had provided for his children, and now a brooding smile settled on his exhausted face. He had established large trust-funds for each of his sons and daughters. The money was safe; it could never be touched by anyone, not even by himself. It was, of course, not enough. He must devise ways of adding to these trust-funds. His whole life’s effort had gone into them. He had little left for himself. It did not matter.
The whole world lay before him, a frightful and threatening world of ugliness, terror, hunger and darkness. This world could no longer threaten his beloved children; he had buttressed their dwelling with money. With money, he had bought them security. He had bought them friends and comforting fires and position and happiness—with the whole of his life. But still, it was not enough. There must be some way of augmenting those trust-funds.
Now he was filled with bitterness. His “great friend,” Jay Regan, had treated him badly. When he had wanted to secure considerable railroad stock, a really substantial block, Jay Regan had smiled at him in the friendliest fashion, but had asked: “With what, Will?” He had reminded William of what he already owed.
There was not the demand any longer for wooden cars. Steel had taken its place. But new and unique ways and uses for wood could be found. The slump which had occurred this fall would soon lift. Strikes were now less threatening. William thought of the strike-breakers he had used, and he shrank involuntarily. He thought of the blood-shed he had caused. He did not know why he shrank. He had his children to think of; nothing mattered but his children.
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