But the subtle antagonism still pervaded the twilit air.
“He is such a good child,” said Ursula, a little coldly.
“Thank you, Mama. But he isn’t a good child by nature. No child is. He is just being trained as well as I can train him. He must respect others.”
“You are such a schoolmistress, Barbie,” observed Ursula, trying to smile.
“I wanted to be one.” Barbara laughed. “I think I’d have been a good one, too. You see, I have no illusions about children.”
The words had a strange echo in Ursula’s ears. For an instant, she was moved to laugh with Barbara. Then her face hardened. A maid brought in the tea-tray. It was Ursula’s own, as was the silver, the delicate old china.
Barbara competently poured the tea. Its fragrance mingled with the scent of the burning wood on the hearth, with the odor of ancient leather and wax. Barbara inspected the small cakes. “Bessie has given us her specialty,” she remarked. She handed a filled and steaming cup to her mother. Their fingers touched. At the touch of her daughter’s strong young fingers, the saddest of thrills ran through Ursula, the saddest of longings.
“How is Papa?” asked Barbara.
“He seems quite well,” answered Ursula. Again, anxiety grayed her face.
“It is almost a year now since he had his last attack,” said Barbara, comfortingly. “Let us hope he won’t have another one, ever.”
“He won’t, if he isn’t upset.” Ursula glanced at her daughter sternly. “And that reminds me, Barbie. Why haven’t you and Oliver and the baby been to see us for nearly a month? Your father remarked about that, only last night.”
He doesn’t really want to see us, thought Barbara, with renewed sadness. Nor do you, Mama, really. You come here only because of the house. Don’t you remember, Mama, how wildly you opposed my marrying Oliver, because Papa was so furiously against it, and without any honest reason? Don’t you remember that Oliver and I had to be married in an obscure rectory, with only yourself present, because Papa would not come, and Julie and Tom would not come? I have always suspected, Mama, that even you came only at the last minute.
But she said nothing to her mother. She merely poured hot water into the silver teapot.
“After all,” said Ursula, “the baby is named after him.”
Yes, said Barbara to herself, somberly. The baby is named after him. Oliver, poor darling, thought that would please Papa. Oliver, my love, you keep forgetting that you are only a pseudo-Prescott, and that Papa had hoped that a boy of Tom’s would perhaps be named after him. You’ve made that impossible, Oliver, and Papa will never forgive you for it.
Barbara had learned tact and diplomacy, but all at once her mother’s last words were too much for her young and restrained impetuousness.
“I never feel we are welcome—at home,” she said.
“Barbie! How can you say that! How cruel that is, and how untrue!”
Barbara was already sorry for her lapse. “I never liked that house,” she said, with sincerity. “And Mama, Julie and Gene don’t like us. You can say that is ‘cruel’ and ‘untrue,’ if you wish, but you know the real truth.”
Ursula’s voice was somewhat unnatural and strained: “I can’t understand, Barbie, why you are so hostile to Julie and Gene. You know your father always believed, and still believes, that sisters are fond of each other. You might help him—” Her voice broke.
“To keep his illusion, Mama?” Barbara sighed. “I’m awfully sorry. You know that Julie really hates me. She hates Oliver, too. She and Gene have quite taken over the house.” Now she was reckless again, because of her hurt, because of the brutal insults that had been inflicted upon Oliver. “You and Papa are almost boarders in that house, and you know it, Mama.”
“Oh, Barbie, how can you be so venomous? I’m not young any more; Julie has proved herself an excellent manager, and has relieved me enormously. And Gene is just like a son, to your father. No one could be more considerate, or kinder, or more helpful.”
Ursula put down her cup; her hand was shaking.
“Yes,” said the young woman. “Gene is all that. I admit it.”
Ursula waited. When Barbara added nothing to what she had said, she exclaimed: “How sinister you make that sound, Barbie! Are you trying to quarrel with me?”
But it is sinister, thought Barbara. Aloud she said, hoping to be kind: “No, Mama, I’m not trying to quarrel with you. I just want you to know why Oliver and I don’t come so very often. Let us grant that you and Papa are happy to see us. Julie and Gene are not. It would be a lie to deny that.”
Now, in the dusk, her eyes seemed to grow larger and brighter, and more bitter.
Ursula was silent. She was, as Barbara knew, intrinsically a just woman. Her mouth drooped in a shame she could not repress. She tried to forget what had happened, but it all came back to her remorselessly: Barbara’s marriage to Oliver, William’s mad threats to “drive the rascal out of town,” William’s visit, in his madness, to Scott, Meredith and Owens, their cold rejection of his demand that they sever relationship with Oliver. And then there was she herself, Ursula, terrified for her husband, upholding him in his fury, almost savagely denouncing her daughter and Oliver—Oliver, whom she loved more than she had ever loved her own children!
She put her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes. She and Barbara had never spoken of these things; not once, in all these four years. There had been between them a tacit agreement that they should never be uttered aloud. Yet there was no forgetting Oliver’s grief at William’s rage, Oliver’s bewilderment at Ursula’s denunciations, even though eventually he had understood and forgiven. He had forgiven long before Ursula had come to visit her daughter and Oliver when they had lived in a small neat house in the suburbs of Andersburg. Oliver had received Ursula with his old fondness and gentleness. He had greeted her as if nothing had happened, when actually so terribly much had happened. She had come, she announced falteringly, to tell them that Julia and Eugene Arnold were to be married, that the “family” wished Barbara and Oliver to know “before anyone else,” and that Barbara and Oliver must be present at the engagement dinner the following night.
Barbara closed her eyes. She had tried never to think of that dinner, but sometimes she could not help remembering. She saw her father again, ravaged and ill; saw her mother’s sick and determined smile; she saw Julia’s beautiful, gloating happiness, Eugene’s elegant composure, Thomas’ wide and jeering grin. When she had wished to marry Oliver, Papa had been beside himself, yet he was, apparently, quite reconciled to Julia’s marrying the son of the man he had ruined, and had never forgiven. The injustice had burned in Barbara like acid.
She remembered, too, the grandeur of Julia’s marriage. For Julia, no obscure and abrupt little wedding in a shabby little parsonage! Julia had had eight bridesmaids, dressed like a rainbow, and among them had been Mary Blake, who had married Thomas hardly a year later. Nothing had been spared for Julia. The gifts alone had been fabulous.
Forgetting everything in the turmoil of her embittered thoughts, Barbara exclaimed: “Oliver always ‘understands’! Always, always! Sometimes I get so sick of Oliver’s ‘understanding’!”
Ursula dropped her hand, and looked at her daughter. Suddenly, she was an old woman. She said with quiet resolution: “Yes, Barbie, Oliver always understands. For you, that is impossible, isn’t it?”
The dangerous and grievous subject lay there between them; they saw it, and turned away from it. Barbara, her voice shaking, replied: “I try, Mama. I really do try.” Her eyes were full of tears. “But I can’t help knowing about Julie and Gene, and how they dislike us. Please give Papa our love, and tell him we’ll visit him soon.”
And now she remembered Thomas’ marriage to that artful and smiling little creature, Mary Blake. William had been sincerely delighted at this marriage. This, too, had been resplendent. Barbara’s mouth tightened. Not for Thomas a tiny little cheap house in the suburbs. For their wedding gift, his father-in
-law had given the young couple a magnificent mansion on the mountain overlooking Andersburg. All white stone and marvelous gardens, filled with luxurious furniture and other treasures, and already staffed with impeccable servants, it stood on a terrace, arrogantly staring down at the city. Mr. Blake, much to William’s proud gratification, had settled an income of fifteen thousand dollars a year on his daughter.
It was shortly after that that Ursula had offered her house to Oliver and Barbara. Barbara had immediately, and cuttingly, wanted to refuse. She could not understand why Oliver, with the slightest of gestures, had checked her, had expressed his pleasure, and had kissed Ursula so tenderly. Oliver, and his “understanding”! Sometimes it was more than Barbara could endure.
However, though she had moved in rebelliously, she loved the house, as her mother had loved it. Later, she realized that Ursula could have given her daughter nothing more valuable. She had given her the place which, to her, was the dearest place on earth.
Remembering, the tears thickened in Barbara’s eyes. She could even be sad, now, that neither Julia nor Thomas had as yet given William a grandson or a granddaughter.
Ursula was gathering up her gloves and purse. “Sunday dinner, Barbie?” she murmured. She paused. “Julie and Gene are dining with Tom and Mary.”
“Then we’ll surely come,” Barbara could not help saying. But she smiled as she said it, and Ursula even smiled back. Now an unfamiliar warmth spread between mother and daughter.
“And don’t forget Billy,” said Ursula, rising. “Your father is very fond of the baby.”
Barbara did not deny this.
She tried to think of some parting words that might make her mother happier. In an enthusiastic voice she said: “Isn’t it wonderful about Matt! Papa must be so proud. All those wonderful paintings, one even exhibited at the Royal Academy! And that ovation given him in Rome, too!”
But she had not made Ursula happy, though Ursula smiled. Ursula was remembering the many urgent letters she had written Matthew, especially since William’s last illness, begging him to come home for a few weeks. Invariably, Matthew had replied: “It is impossible, Mama. I cannot go home, not even for a little while. I have tried to explain. Please don’t think I am cruel. It is something I can’t put into words. I can only say—I am afraid. I’m afraid, even now.”
Ursula said: “Yes, your father is so proud. You know, he has bought the painting which was exhibited in London. It is on its way here.” What a struggle it had been to convince William that Matthew was enormously “busy”! William had been determined to visit his son. His own illness had intervened, and Dr. Banks had conspired with Ursula when he had informed William that “for some time,” he must undertake no journey whatsoever.
Barbara gave her mother the warmest kiss she had ever given her. The two women clung together briefly in sorrowful silence. I, Barbara could not help thinking, am not doing so badly at this “understanding” business, myself!
Ursula drove away in her carriage, her gloved hand waving to her daughter, who stood on the doorstep where she, herself, had stood so many thousands of times. It was right, somehow, to see Barbara standing there. It was as if her own youth, unburdened by the years, confidently and bravely awaiting the future, stood on that threshold.
The future, thought Ursula. God help us.
CHAPTER LIV
Julia fastened her diamond and topaz ear-rings carefully upon her ears. She stood up with a rustle of topaz skirts about her feet. There were topazes and diamonds about her white throat, and upon her arms. They complemented the rich light auburn of her hair, her amber eyes, the delicate flush of her cheeks, the whiteness of her lovely shoulders and breast, the brightness of her perfect mouth. Her eyes sparkled with gay satisfaction. She turned about swiftly, to laugh at Eugene, who was watching her from a distant chair.
“Well, do I satisfy you, Gene?” she asked, teasingly. Her love for her husband made her face radiant.
He rose slowly and came to her. He put his hands on her shoulders. “You always do, Julie,” he said. He kissed her lingeringly; her bare and perfumed arms went about his shoulders. “Oh, how I love you, Gene,” she murmured. “Not more than I love you, my darling,” he replied.
She withdrew from his arms. “I wonder how much longer we’ll have to wait,” she said. Now her voice was sullen and full of resentment. “It isn’t fair.”
Composedly, Eugene glanced with meaning at the closed door of their large and luxurious bedroom. He said, calmly: “I think we’ve agreed—”
“Not to discuss anything in this house,” she finished for him petulantly. She kissed him again. “It isn’t fair to you, Gene,” she repeated.
Without answering, he picked up Julia’s sable cloak and put it about her bare shoulders. “We are already late,” he said. “The carriage is at the door.”
“I’m ready,” she said. They went out together, walked slowly, arm in arm, down the curving marble staircase. Julia looked at nothing but her husband, and he smiled down at her. They reached the bottom of the staircase. “Bother,” said Julia. “It’s late, and we’ll have to say goodnight to Papa and Mama.”
They found William drowsing before the fire in the red and marble room. Haggard and exhausted, he sat slumped in his chair. Ursula sat near him, embroidering, her face preoccupied, her hair gray in the lamplight. As Eugene and Julia entered, she looked up alertly, ready to indicate with an automatic gesture that William slept. She tried to smile, as Julia brought with her, into this enormous room, the glow and radiance of youth and beauty and vitality but, in Eugene’s presence, it was hard to smile affectionately. She had been aghast when William had told her that Julia wished to marry Eugene Arnold. All her instincts had protested, wildly, repudiatingly. Hardly recovered from the marriage of Barbara and Oliver, William’s savage treatment of his younger daughter and foster son, and her own shameful refusal of support to the young couple, she could not conceal her repugnance to this proposed marriage. She could not believe that William would countenance it, and had been stunned when he had assured her that it “pleased” him.
“But William,” she had cried, “how can it ‘please’ you? What has happened to you?” She knew that something had indeed happened, for William, for all his expression of pleasure, had seemed ill and broken.
“I said,” he answered, in an ugly tone, “that it is perfectly all right. What is the matter with Eugene? He is my general manager; he is invaluable to me. He has done well for himself. Fifteen years difference in their ages? What is wrong with that?”
William would say no more, but Ursula, remembering Barbara and Oliver, had been embittered and remorseful. She could not, at the time, reconcile herself to this new marriage. Even now, after almost four years of it, she could not reconcile herself to it.
Eugene stood beside his wife. At thirty-eight, his light hair had faded, become almost gray. His dry face never told anyone except Julia anything. Julia, beside him, was all sparkle and topaz flame and delicate life.
Glad that her father slept, Julia whispered: “Say good-night to him for us, Mama. Poor Papa. He needs to rest.”
Ursula nodded. She lifted her eyes to Eugene. He was regarding her as he had regarded her when he was a child, with a curious interest, respectful and dignified.
Julia and Eugene went out together. The embroidery lay on Ursula’s knee. She looked at the fire. William continued to drowse; once or twice he muttered feebly, as if in pain, and Ursula would start then, look at him with aching apprehension. How terribly he had aged! How weak he had become, more than was natural in a man of sixty. His big thin hands dangled over the arms of his chair; he had lost much weight. His large frame had become almost gaunt. His hair was white, that hair which had once been thick and black. Yet, when he went to his offices life returned to him, if only briefly. He goaded himself beyond his strength, for something had broken him. He was proud of Thomas; Thomas had “brains.” He knew more about the lumber business than did many lumber men twice his age. Tho
mas was a never-failing source of consolation to him. William often repeated that: consolation.
Dear God, she thought passionately, let him live—and die—deceived.
In half an hour, Oliver and Barbara and the baby would be arriving. She folded her embroidery; gently, she re-covered William’s sagging knees with the afghan. She went out into the morning room, where she would receive Barbara and Oliver, as usual.
In the meantime, one of the Prescott carriages, with Eugene and Julia, rolled up the mountain road. Eugene had tucked the fur robe tenderly about his wife; her head, covered with a bright and sparkling scarf, rested on his shoulder. It was already dark, but the snow on the mountains glimmered about them. In the west lay a pool of cold saffron in which the icy evening-star glittered restlessly. The mountains moved and shouldered about the carriage.
In the closed confines of the carriage, Julia said: “And now, again, we’ll have to pretend to Tom that everything is going famously, and that one of these days, soon, he’ll be president of the Prescott Lumber Company! Oh, Gene, my darling, it is almost too much for me to stand, when you and I know that you, and you only, are going to be president! I love Tom; I’ve always loved him. But, after all, he is not you—you who deserve everything, and have worked for everything.”
Eugene took her hand, held it tightly. “I’ve been patient for years, Julie, sweet. It won’t be long, now. Just be patient. And, of course, Tom must suspect nothing; he has been working with me, and doing everything that I suggest. I like Tom. But not even Tom, I assure you, Julie, shall stand in my way.”
He spoke with unemotional quiet, but Julie smiled contentedly. Then she frowned. “Why won’t Papa give up? How long is he going—to” She paused as she restrained the ugly word, and replaced it with another “—force himself, when he isn’t well?”
Eugene stared thoughtfully before him. “Your father,” he said, “won’t ever give up, not even to Tom. You know that. He’s going to make Tom a vice-president. Harmless, enough, even in the jaundiced view of his officers and directors. But while he is alive he’ll never resign the presidency.” Again, Eugene tucked the robe about his wife. “Unless he is forced to do so.”
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