The Man Who Loved Children (29 page)

Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,

Profaners of this neighbor-stained steel,—

Will they not hear? What ho! you men, you beasts”

Nellie began to smile, “That’s nice. Can you recite?”

“Yes,” said Louie. “
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
; but it’s a long one. Do you want to hear it? Besides I don’t know much more.”

“What else do you know, kid?”

“
Lars Porsena of Clusium by the nine gods he swore
.”

“You say that at school?”

“Yes,” said Louie.

“But you’re a norphan,” said the girl, shaking her head. “You got to go to work.”

Neither of them had heard wistful Evie come pussy-footing into the kitchen. She now stood at the door, staring at them, in their wonderful intercourse. But espied, she came up and proffered herself, “I can dance.”

“You run away, little Evie,” said Nellie.

“I better go,” Louie said hastily. The company of the norphan-obsessed young person was palling and she felt uneasy about the thefts. “Don’t go,” said Nellie quickly, “stay here. I got no one to talk to here from one day’s end to another.”

“You didn’t tell me the truth,” said Louie getting up courage.

“I did so; and they wear pink socks when they go to bed too,” Nellie gabbled, with a sneer. “They do all sorts of things; but I couldn’t tell them to little girls like you.”

With a severe expression, Louie left the kitchen, drawing Evie after her. Louie was deeply puzzled and sin-filled. But at once she began inventing, in the cockles of her heart, a hocus-pocus of denial, and explanation, about the cookies and the flowers. But how, in the name of everything under the sun, did anyone find out about them? She began to feel that the Boltons and Middenways were little better than creeping spies and callous slanderers trying to gnaw away her reputation. She had a right to the cookies and flowers, she calculated; whatever she did for herself, on her own initiative, was right and she would defy the world: but what about the miserable insect souls and minds of adults who spied on children and tattled? Louie was full of righteous indignation, and ready to battle her way through anything. But (mystery added to mystery) no one ever mentioned the strange thefts to her: and in due time she began to think that little Nellie, the norphan, had lied, too.

The two little girls sat side by side on the third step, Evie impatient to get back to her stuffed birds and musical box, but Louie, afraid of her footsteps, and selfishly sinking into a daydream, while her hair mingled with Evie’s chestnut mane.

“Where are those girls, I wonder?”

“They can’t come to any harm here. Give yourself some rest.”

Hassie said, “You know Molly’s poor boy spoke the other day? She heard him calling and couldn’t believe her ears: she flew like the wind. He had his eyes open and seemed to be trying to lift his poor great lolling head. When he saw her, he said, ‘Mother, Mother!’ Then in the night she heard him again and she woke Albert and Albert heard him too. Then he said no more. After twelve years of punishment, poor Molly heard her boy speak to her. I’m sorry for poor Molly.”

“It’s going to die,” Old Ellen declared; “that’s a sign.”

“Better it should die! Only the poor wretch would have nothing in her life. If it died, she would die. Imagine twelve years tied to an idiot lying on its back.” Henny sighed.

“She’s had her punishment on this earth,” said Hassie.

“It’s her own fault,” cried Henny, “leaving a baby on a table while she goes to the door.”

“Only a minute,” sighed Hassie, “just one minute.”

“One minute! I’ll guarantee she was gabbing fifteen minutes.”

“They will never forget that one minute all their lives. I think it’s tragic,” sighed Hassie. “He’s very good to her.”

“Men are always good to fools and perfect idiots,” cried Henny impatiently. “A man will run ten miles from a woman with sense. I wonder where those kids are now. I’ll have to go and look for them.”

“Oh, you’re like a hen with chickens,” said Hassie.

“To think,” said Henny, after a pause, referring to something else, “that a woman like that will probably get a slice of the estate, and the law allows it. Oh, life is too vile. If it happens, I’ll go and see that woman and show her the six kids I have to feed and clothe and show her ray rags. Even if she throws me downstairs, I’ll give her something to think about; I’d rather scream her house down than let her get away with it. She may be a mistress, but she’s the lowest of the low if she sees my six children starve because of her frills and flounces.”

“I won’t have her discussed in this house,” Old Ellen said violently.

“And she’s taking the bread out of your mouth! Don’t be a fool, Mother; make a scandal. Tell Father you’ll write to his club.”

“I won’t,” said Old Ellen. “I’m through with fighting, I’m through with scolding and shouting, I’m through with thinking I’ll get my rights. I’m through with your father, I’m through with the estate. If they give me a little corner to go and live with Barry when he’s dead, that’s all I ask. Let her get it and enjoy it: she’s got life before her. Let her enjoy life over my old stringy carcass.”

“But can you imagine Archie standing for it?”

“He told me he fought the old man bitterly on that,” said Hassie in a low voice, “but—you know—” she stopped.

“I know,” said Old Ellen suddenly.

“You can’t let a kid starve even if it’s beyond the pale,” grumbled Henny.

“I’m too old for argy-bargying after all these years of not speaking,” said Old Ellen.

“I’d fight for money to my last drop of blood,” said Henny indignantly. “Can you live on air? Father comes smiling at my children, and all with that beau-of-the-nineties air, and smelling of lotion, and I know he’s come from and going to his love nest.”

“And your little tin Jesus,” said Old Ellen suddenly, “what is he doing when your back’s turned. Ha-ha! Your little tin Jesus.”

“Shut up, Mother,” said Henny, “don’t be stupid. I wish to God you were right. I’d get a divorce. No such luck. You know who I saw the other day as large as life? Dunne Legge and his wife. She was hurrying into Woodward, Lothrop’s, and he was meekly sitting there at the wheel. She’s not fat, but beefier than ever in the hips, you know how she was, well ten times more so and great big shoulders lolloping, but well corseted, and there he sat grinning calfishly like a lap dog after her. She always heckled him and hackled him and that’s what he wanted. I didn’t know that! I took his word for what he wanted. But when I saw her the first time, I knew I’d been a fool to take his word! She bossed him and he took it in big gobs: it got him. It would have been a bad mistake. It’s enough to wave the big stick over the kids without a great big bear of a man. He saw me and I bowed to him very quietly, but he got out of the car and came over to me and stood talking, and I don’t mind telling you he made a sort of gentlemanly pass at me, but I wasn’t having any. I know the fine monsieur. If he thinks I have no memory! It gave me a sort of satisfaction, I tell you, to be so distant with him. Then she bustled up and just ran over, sirupy and saccharine and I skedaddled: I can’t stand such falsity! The last thing I saw her struggling to get that great body of her into the car door. But there she sits, a ton of beef, and has cars and servants and everything. Oh, it all makes me sick. It all makes me sick: what’s the use of struggling? You fall madly in love with one man and nearly break your heart because he throws you over and years later you find out you would have been miserable with him; and you go to a man you don’t care for and it’s just the same with him too. Life is nothing but rags and tags and filthy rags at that. Why was I ever born?”

“It’s too late to ask me that,” said Old Ellen. “But you mightn’t have been.” She began to laugh, “Your old man sent me anonymous letters himself to make me divorce him.” She rippled with he-hes. “I hung on to spite him. I didn’t want him. It’s my only pleasure left.” She laughed. “All I’ve got left is to sit in the sun and watch Barry booze and sometimes give him a kick in the pants. Sit in the sun and watch barflies, huh?”

“I’ll bet that child is hanging around somewhere spying and listening,” Henny worried.

At that Louie got up and pulled Evie silently up after her. The two of them started to tiptoe into the long dining room, but Evie, who didn’t know the reason for this maneuver, broke away and ran to the door of the breakfast room calling,

“Mother, where’s Uncle Barry?”

“Evie, Evie,” Louie called.

“Just as I thought, I was sure,” said Henny.

“Send the child away,” Hassie said.

“Let her stay,” Old Ellen commanded comfortably. “She’s a big girl now, and Evie’s too little a girl, eh, my dears? What do you fret yourself so much for?” she asked Henny. “Wait till you’ve had as many as I’ve had. They know more or less, it makes no difference in the end of the book. Sure, let her stay, you want to stay, don’t you, Louie?”

“Yes—no,” Louie looked from one to the other. Henny laughed with irritation, “Let her stay, let her hear the dirt.” Old Ellen laughed, “You want to hear the dirt?”

“She’s got her ears stuffed with dirt,” said Henny. They all laughed good-naturedly. Old Ellen affected to disregard the child’s blush and cried,

“Well, I’ve got a head full of dirt. You could comb it out. These windy days I don’t wash it for a sixmonth. Life’s dirty, isn’t it, Louie, eh? Don’t you worry what they say to you, we’re all dirty.”

Louie lifted her head, her eyes opened gladly, and she began to laugh while Evie moved slowly into Hassie’s skirts. Old Ellen said loudly,

“Only it’s all over now; I’m clean now. The worst was when they were all at school and running to the stables and dirtying up the house and worrying about women with that hang-dog, up-and-down-day, blue-Monday look, tramping through the house, dirtying it all up with cigars and cigarettes and stealing your father’s keys and getting at his lordship’s decanters.” She laughed uproariously, “Oh, I used to listen at night for Barry creeping down, the way you listen for a mouse to squeak. There I would find him tasting and nipping with an electric torch! What a lad!” She laughed. “Now, it’s different. I’m a decent body, fit to talk to my washerwoman. No more milk on my bodices, mud on my skirts, only snuff on my mustache.”

With utter repugnance, the two little girls looked at the well-filled old parchment face with its corrugated lips.

“Mother! Louie, run out onto the lawn. Mother, I wish you wouldn’t talk that way before the children. Evie, run and play in the drawing room! Will you stop it, Mother! You’re disgusting.”

The old woman laughed, “Oh, let her stay. One day she’ll get married, won’t you, Louie?”

Louie looked shyly at her, filled with gratitude.

“And I’ll have a baby,” said Evie.

“You’ll have a man in your skirts soon enough,” said Old Ellen.

“Mother, for shame! You ought to blush!” cried the two women. “Before babies!”

“Baby me no babies!” cried Old Ellen. “They’re grown women. When I was Evie’s age I was looking after cows and horses and listening to the bellowing, with the cows a-bulling in the great big yellow summer moons. Kids grow up in the country. You keep them in bibs, you’re child spoilers. Louie’s a big sensible girl. Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, eh, Louie?”

Louie simpered vaguely.

“Mother, be quiet!”

Old Ellen had the devil in her. “Do you know that old joke that you brought home from school, and did I give you a smack-bottom then, though I remember the day with a laugh this many years gone. Mrs. Jones had a black baby. Mr. Jones died of fright when he had to explain it.”

“Mother! Louie, leave the room. Mother, she’d do better to go and talk to that poor miserable creature from Highlandtown in your kitchen than to you. Go at once, Louie!”

The old woman gabbled on, ignoring her daughters’ frowns, and Louie lingered. “Then the baby died and they buried it in one coffin and everyone saw that the little thing was black. Haugh!”

Hassie flushed and bounced up. But Henny sat in her place and merely commanded harshly, “Leave the room at once, or I’ll make you.”

Louie, struggling for a foothold, said quickly, with a whine, “Mother, Nellie says I am a bastard.”

They all thoroughly enjoyed the cries and questions that followed. But Old Ellen herself bounced in her seat, saying, “I’ll put salt on my lady’s tail,” while Hassie cried that she must get rid of the wicked little faggot and Henny told her this was what came of letting Barry choose the kitchenmaids. At that moment, there was a sound of a car honking plaintively, and they saw Archie’s big sedan behind Hassie’s car on the gravel drive. At the same time, Henny violently tugged at the bellpull and there came Nellie’s running footsteps.

Archibald Lessinum came up the drive with a fretful expression which changed to polite pleasure when he saw the ladies. Mother and Hassie and Henny were all greeted and kissed, and he already noted their trouble and anger—three matrons with tumbled laps and Henny still carrying her serviette and wiping her lips.

“Did I alarm you, ladies?”

Archie was a short, neat, small-boned blond of a family of decayed officials whose money had gone during the war. Old David Collyer, self-made man who loved struggling talent, picked out Archie Lessinum and made him his clerk, then lawyer, then son-in-law, just as he had picked out Samuel Pollit and made him son-in-law and advanced him. Archie, thin and weak, had first liked a little the sprightly, spoiled young Henny with her dark great eyes; but after a few months of feeding, he felt the power rise up in him to cope with noble fleshly Eleanor, her father’s pet, who fell romantically in love with him. This passion held for seven years when they were married.

Hassie, who expected to be named executrix of her father’s will, treated Archie very seriously and confidentially as man to man; Henny saw him with a twinge of pain even now. Eleanor had no children. As for Old Ellen, she could hardly distinguish him from the rest of the world or her sons; having produced so many after pregnancies of identical length and after so many identical childhood illnesses, she could hardly tell one man from another. She was as glad to see young Archie as anyone else.