Let Love Come Last

  Julia said at once, in her sweet hard voice: “Mama, Barbie is so stupid! Miss Vincent insists her French accent is wrong, but Barbie has become so arrogant because of that summer in Paris, where she says she learned to speak French properly.” She had given Oliver only the briefest of glances, though he had risen at the entrance of his step-sisters. Now she turned imperatively to Barbara. “Now, just say in French: ‘The gallery is filled with beautiful pictures,’ and let Mama decide, you pert thing!”

  Barbara was smiling quickly at Oliver. With a bored expression, she translated the sentence into exquisite French. “There!” cried Julia, in triumph, “you see! Her accent, her phrasing, are atrocious!”

  “On the contrary,” said Ursula, a little sharply, “it is perfect. I really must speak to Miss Vincent, if she insists that Barbie’s French is not correct. I have always suspected that her own was provincial.” She added: “Julie, Barbie, your manners.”

  Julia’s beautiful amber eyes darkened. She looked at Oliver again: “Oh, hello,” she muttered with disdain. Barbara said: “What are you doing home so early, Oliver?” Her young face, much more mature than her sister’s, was touched with a momentary gentleness.

  “I wanted to talk something over with Mama,” he answered. Julia’s full red mouth tightened, but she turned from Oliver as one turns from an upstart servant. “Mama,” she said, “Miss Vincent is a teacher. You aren’t. Surely Miss Vincent ought to know how French should be pronounced, and not you.”

  Ursula could never become accustomed to the rudeness of her daughters. She tried to control her voice: “I have visited France very often, Julie. Also, I had excellent teachers when I was a girl, such as your grandfather, who spoke French perfectly. Miss Vincent acquired her French in Andersburg, though she taught it in Philadelphia for six months.”

  Julia was mortified and resentful. “Well, we were in France, too, and Barbie’s French doesn’t sound right to me. Miss Vincent’s does.”

  “Then I can’t congratulate you on your ear,” replied Ursula.

  Oliver moved swiftly into the path of the approaching quarrel. “Julie, Miss Vincent has a voice without too much pitch, and so, I think, she finds French a little difficult.”

  “That’s what I’m always telling her,” said Barbara, smugly. She flipped her apron in mockery at her sister.

  “Do you mean you are that rude to Miss Vincent?” asked Ursula.

  Barbara laughed. “She is too silly to suspect rudeness, Mama. Besides, Papa always tells us we must tell the truth.” Mockery was little pin-points of light in her eyes. She added: “I think Papa’s wrong. You can do a lot of harm, always telling the truth.”

  Ursula was silent. “Stop flipping that dirty apron at me, you saucy thing!” cried Julia, with anger.

  “‘No ink on the fingers, no words in the brain’,” quoted Barbara, maddeningly. “Oh, go upstairs again, Julie, and console Miss Vincent for being wrong. You are her pet, you know. Maybe because neither of you knows how to speak French.”

  “Barbie,” said Ursula. Julia, goaded, snatched at the long dark cataract of her sister’s hair, but Barbara, shrieking with laughter, swung out of the way. She danced back a step or two. “Oh, go upstairs!” she repeated. “Pat silly old Vincent’s thick shoulder, and then sit down and moon a while about Eugene Arnold. That’s all you’re good for.”

  “Barbie!” cried Ursula. “How dare you say such a thing to Julie!” Her expression was shocked. Eugene Arnold! Was she never to be rid of him, never to hear the last of that name? She went on, her voice quick and trembling: “Julie is your sister, Barbie. She is only a little girl. How can you speak so to her, and especially in connection with Eugene Arnold, a man in his thirties!”

  The very thought horrified her. She stood up, looking from one of her daughters to the other, and so appalled was her manner, so angry her face, that both girls were frightened. Julia, however, had turned a dark red.

  “What do you mean, Barbie?” exclaimed Ursula. In her agitation, she caught Barbara by the shoulder. Barbara, with the deftness of long practice, wrenched herself away. She ran towards the door, stopped on the threshold, defiantly. “I was just teasing Julie,” she said. “But she does moon about him, every time he comes here, though he just ignores her.”

  Oliver said in a low tone to Ursula, standing at her side: “Mama, young girls are just romantic. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  For once, Ursula disregarded him. “I should think he would ‘ignore’ a chit her age! Really, Barbie. How vulgar you are. I think you, too, ought to go upstairs. And don’t ever let your father hear such remarks from you.”

  “She’s always saying ugly things,” agreed Julia. She had recovered herself, and now she gave her sister a malicious glance. “Little children ought to be excused, I suppose. They don’t know any better.” She waved her hand airily and gracefully at Barbara. “Back to the nursery, pet,” she added.

  Barbara seemed to be thinking; she overlooked her sister’s flippant gesture. Her eyes had narrowed. She looked slowly from Julia to Ursula. “Gene Arnold,” she added, quietly, “is a rascal. Mama, I was wrong. He doesn’t ignore her. He—he looks at her, even when he pretends not to, even if she is only fifteen. And she smirks at him, when she sees that.”

  “Barbie!” cried Ursula.

  Julia laughed. “She is just making up things, because she is ugly and jealous.” She tossed the bright heavy weight of her auburn hair. “Gene’s an old man, and he doesn’t think about anything but Papa’s business—”

  “And what to do about it,” interrupted Barbara, still quietly.

  Julia went on, as if her sister had not spoken: “He’s an old man,” she repeated. “I’m almost young enough to be his daughter.” Her voice was loud, but quicker now. She regarded her mother with hard concentration. “I never heard anything so ridiculous. Gene just lives to help Papa. He hasn’t another thought in his head.”

  “He has plenty of thoughts,” said Barbara. She came back a step or two into the room.

  She waited. Ursula sat down slowly and heavily, her fingers clenched together, her head bent. Barbara took another step towards her mother. Her voice was level and mature. “Mama, why does he come here? Oh,I know he works in the library with Papa some nights. But he comes here for another reason, too.” She waited. No one spoke. “Gene is really bad, Mama. I wish he wouldn’t come here anymore.”

  Ursula lifted her head. Before she could stop herself she had said bitterly: “I wish so, too.”

  Julia had been standing still the last few moments. “How can you talk so about Gene, either of you?” It was a woman’s voice now, cold and contemptuous. “He is Papa’s assistant. He does everything for Papa. Papa couldn’t get along without Gene, and he trusts him, as he ought to.”

  It was that voice that aroused Ursula. She looked at her older daughter with a terror so great that she could hardly breathe. And Julia looked back at her, no longer childishly defiant, but impervious and flashing as a polished stone. “I like Gene,” she said, as if in warning.

  Holding her beautiful head very high, she went out of the room, passing her sister as if she did not see her.

  Ursula could not speak. Oliver stood at her side. He exchanged a look with Barbara, and, as if he had commanded, the young girl approached her mother. “Mama,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. Please don’t be disturbed, about Julie or anything. I was wrong. Please forgive me.”

  It was seldom that Barbara was contrite and earnest. Had the occasion been less ominous, Ursula would have responded with affection and gratitude. Now she sat in her chair, motionless, staring before her. She was remembering Julia’s voice.

  She said, her own voice breaking: “Please, Barbie. Please go upstairs again.”

  Barbara went, silently, twisting her pinafore between her hands, moved but resolute.

  Oliver put his hand on Ursula’s shoulder. “Mama, remember they are just little girls, both of them. They are always quarreling. You mustn’t l
isten to them. They mean nothing.”

  Ursula lifted her own hand, removed Oliver’s. She had never done this before, but it was as if she was distracted. “Oliver,” she said, “I think I’d like to be alone, please.”

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  If Ursula had any influence upon her children at all, it was during William’s absences. She lost this meagre influence just before his return, during the four or five days after he left, and, of course, during the time he was at home.

  She had to admit that Thomas had improved to some extent. His years at Mr. Landsdowne’s school had tamed him in a certain way. Mr. Landsdowne had inherited, some six years ago, from an old uncle he had long forgotten, a considerable sum, and this, combined with his intellectual independence and a certain integrity, had enabled him to be openly honest in his dealings with his students. Now, economically secure, he could exercise a probity which he had had to suppress, bitterly, in the past. There is nothing like an inheritance, a good, sound, plump inheritance, to make men honor you, seek your company, and buy your wares, whether intellectual or material, with gusto and gratitude, said Mr. Landsdowne, with a cynicism born of long-dealing with the human race.

  He had not immediately accepted Thomas and Matthew Prescott. In fact, he had, in his mind, immediately rejected them, had sat down to write William of his rejection. But one of his friends, Dr. Banks, had good naturedly urged him to accept the boys. “After all,” said Dr. Banks, “the rascals will inherit the business, and I am concerned with the business, too.”

  The reputation of William Prescott’s sons had preceded them into the school. It was known that Thomas was “impossible,” that Matthew was silent and mysterious and disinclined to study. Mr. Landsdowne contemplated Thomas’ reputation even before the boy’s arrival. It would give him pleasure, he thought, to “put the young scoundrel through his paces.” Mr. Landsdowne believed firmly in the rod, judiciously applied. Mr. Landsdowne had a personal interview with William, and candidly expressed his views about the rod. “If this is distasteful to you, sir,” he had said, coolly, “pray do not consider sending your sons here. I have my ways, and I shall not abdicate them for anyone.”

  Not to have gone to this school, not to have been admitted, was a serious social detriment to young boys, and William knew this. He glared formidably at the schoolmaster. But Mr. Landsdowne had remained imperturbable, conscious of the inheritance.

  “My sons are well-mannered, though Thomas is at times high-spirited. As for Matthew, it has never been necessary to punish him. I leave it all to your own good judgment.”

  Thomas was no fool. There was a sly intelligence behind those narrowed brown eyes. He knew immediately that complaints about Mr. Landsdowne would not be much heeded by his father, that they might even antagonize him. This did not prevent him, at first, from attempting to bully his classmates, from lying about them, from intimidating them or seeking to cause them trouble. A few excellent strokes of Mr. Landsdowne’s switch eliminated manifestations like these, however, almost immediately.

  It was enough for Mr. Landsdowne that Thomas caused him little trouble. He knew boys like Thomas. It was useless to attempt to teach them anything but what was in their textbooks. Being a philosopher, Mr. Landsdowne even became proud of Thomas’ marks in mathematics, history and biology. People like him, he thought, have their place. We cannot all be educated.

  Matthew was another matter entirely. Matthew’s teachers might have hopes for him, but Mr. Landsdowne had none, and this saddened him for several reasons. Here was a potentially great mind, a mind capable of splendor. But whenever he attempted to stimulate him, he encountered a strange lassitude, a kind of quiet and indifferent arrogance and withdrawal. He eluded his teachers, became passive, cold, silent. There was no “drawing out” of Matthew. What lay in him could not be reached. It could not be expressed, because Matthew had no desire to express it. Therein lay the tragedy.

  Before dinner, this evening, while the autumn light still lay in a quiet flood of lavender over the hills and the valley, Ursula went up to Matthew’s room. Matthew no longer occupied a room with his twin; several years ago he had insisted, without emotion however, upon being alone. After the age of eight, he had never asked for anything but this: that he have a room to himself. Ursula had been pleased at this one pallid symptom of self-assertion; William had not been pleased at all. He had wanted the twins to be “close,” to develop a brotherly comradeship.

  Matthew’s room was stark and austere, completely uncluttered, and somberly tidy. It was a big chamber, facing north. Along one wall stood a huge bookcase, filled with books personally selected by him. Those fatuously alleged by William to be “natural for boys, and bound to be of interest to them,” had mysteriously disappeared. Matthew had one small petulance: he disliked anyone touching his books, he even disliked to have their titles read by a scanning eye. Ursula knew, however, what the books were. Few were fiction. There were the plays of Shakespeare, of Molière and Sheridan, and of many others. There were books on music, biographies of the great composers. The histories of the world’s gigantic artists in paint and stone were there also. And, oddly, the more cynical books of Racine and Voltaire stood cheek-by-jowl with volumes of the world’s noblest poetry. There was a magnificent Bible, too; Ursula had examined it curiously during Matthew’s absence at school. Ursula had the uncomfortable conviction that piety had not induced the reading of the Bible, just as she was convinced that Matthew had not been inspired by the artists of the past to do anything creative himself.

  Ursula found Matthew standing before an easel on which was propped a rather large canvas. Sometimes he painted, though it was with a distant lassitude which could not give his mother cause for hope. It was as if he painted because he had, at the moment, nothing better to do. Yet, his teachers, gone now these past three years, had seriously told Ursula that her son was “touched with genius, if he could only try.” Some impelling force was absent in him.

  Matthew glanced up briefly when his mother entered. He replied to her greeting. When he had been younger, she had put what is called “enthusiasm” into her voice, in an effort to arouse him. Now she no longer insulted either herself or her son with any foolish ardor; she had a respect for Matthew if not too deep a love.

  Ursula walked over to the easel, and stood looking at the painting, which shone starkly in the last of the north light. Her sixteen-year-old son was taller than herself, his yellow head was slightly above hers. He stood beside her, completely indifferent to her response to his painting. Ursula studied it gravely. She became aware of a strange thumping of her heart. It had been a long time since she had seen any of Matthew’s work. If he painted at all, and she was not even sure of this, he hid his canvases. He was letting her see this one now. Her first puzzlement disappeared before an incredulous awe and emotion.

  Two years ago, she and the children, accompanied by Lucy only, had visited Europe. Mrs. Templeton, who had striven for years, as a good clergyman’s widow, with the souls of the Prescott children, had retired on the small but, to her, substantial pension William had given her. It had been an arduous journey, and Ursula had been exhausted by it. But, so far as Ursula knew, Matthew had not been moved, not even by Italy, that land of light and color, civilization and nobility, life and passion. He had given up his art lessons some months before. Ursula had hoped that Italy might inspire him, as it had inspired so many who had passed through its almost incredible beauty. He had gone through it all, aloof, silent, mysterious as always, and had betrayed only a pale impatience when the desperate Ursula had called anything to his attention.

  Yet, he had seen. He must have seen! On a small table beside his easel stood a great opened book, which Ursula remembered having bought for him in Italy. And it stood open to a large and excellent photograph of the “Pietá,” the white and exquisite marble high-lighted against a dark background. It was as distinct as a fine cameo; it stood out from the page as if possessed of a third dimension.

  Matthew had been pai
nting from that photograph. But he had not painted it as marble. He had painted it in the hues and lines of life. Against a fateful and Apocalyptic background of purple, faded gold and muted scarlet—like the twilight of a world dying forever—sat the Mother, with her crucified Son across her knees and in her arms. The figures had a spectral but luminous quality, dying, too, in the death of a world, and they imparted to Ursula a sorrow and hopelessness beyond the power of any word to express. Mary’s resignation was the tragedy of one who was beyond solace; her bent head threw a shadow across her face so that the features could barely be discerned. Ursula felt the mute and inconsolable bewilderment of all the mothers of the world whose sons had been done to death.

  The figure across Mary’s knees, subtly stronger in execution than the marble, was the figure of a young man newly dead, not weakly supine, not yet completely alienated from life, but implying a human despair, a struggle against the death which had been forced upon it. This young man was not the Lord of Heaven, resting before rising in triumph; he was the embodiment of all who had suffered and been fiercely defeated, who had died irreconcilable, and with no hope.

  How could one so young as Matthew create such a painting, with such delicacy, with such a poignant intuition, with so much perfection? Ursula marvelled. What lay in him, still unfound, which had enabled him to conceive such ghostly power, such majesty?

  And then her exultation died, and she saw all the terribleness of the picture. All its beauty, all its original artistry, was destroyed. It was a portrait of a deprived mother and her dead son; the resignation of Mary was frightful, and this death was a most awful thing, beyond redeeming, beyond understanding, with no future but oblivion. The background, itself, was less background than an agony—its flowing purples, its slashed golds and scarlets, were an agony made visible.

  Ursula was silent. The evening sky, while she stood there, darkened more and more. The painting dimmed. Now it was unearthly. Without her knowledge, Matthew had moved away from her. He was standing at a distant window, as he always stood, lost and untouchable.