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The Mother, a novel by Norman Duncan |
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3. A Garden Of Lies |
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_ Withal it was a rare mood: nor, being wise, was she given to expressing it in this gloomy fashion. It was her habit, rather, assiduously to woo him: this with kisses, soft and wet; with fleeting touches; with coquettish glances and the sly display of her charms; with rambling, fantastic tales of her desirability in the regard of men--thus practicing all the familiar fascinations of her kind, according to the enlightenment of the world she knew. He must be persuaded, she thought, that his mother was beautiful, coveted; convinced of her wit and gaiety: else he would not love her. Life had taught her no other way.... And always at break of day, when he awoke in her arms, she waited, with a pang of anxiety, pitilessly recurring, lest there be some sign that despite her feverish precautions the heedless world had in her nightly absence revealed that which she desperately sought to hide from him....
"Now, mother," said he, spreading the picture flat, "show me you." "This here lady," she answered, evasively, "is the Duchess of Croft." "Is it?" he asked, without interest. "She is very fat. Where are you?" "And here," she proceeded, "is Lord Wychester." "Mother," he demanded, "where are you?" She was disconcerted; no promising evasion immediately occurred to her. "Maybe," she began, tentatively, "this lady here----" "Oh, no!" he cried, looking up with a little laugh. "It is not like you, at all!" "Well," she said, "it's probably meant for me." He shook his head; and by the manner of this she knew that he would not be deceived. "Perhaps," she said, "the Duchess told the man not to put me in the picture. I guess that's it. She was awful jealous. You see, dear," she went on, very solemnly, "Lord Wychester took a great fancy to me." He looked up with interest. "To--my shape," she added. "Oh!" said he. "And that," she continued, noting his pleasure, "made the Duchess hot; for she's too fat to have much of a figure. Most men, you know," she added, as though reluctant in her own praise, "do fancy mine." She brushed his cheek with her lips. "Don't you think, dear," she asked, assuming an air of girlish coquetry, thus to compel the compliment, "that I'm--rather--pretty?" "I think, mother," he answered, positively, "that you're very, very pretty." It made her eyes shine to hear it. "Well," she resumed, improvising more confidently, now, "the Duchess was awful mortified because Lord Wychester danced with me seventeen times. 'Lord Wychester,' says she, 'what do you see in that blonde with the diamonds?' 'Duchess,' says he, 'I bet the blonde don't weigh over a hundred and ten!'" There was no answering smile; the boy glanced at the picture of the wise and courtly old Lord Wychester, gravely regarded that of the Duchess of Croft, of whose matronly charms, of whose charities and amiable qualities, all the world knows. "What did she say?" he asked. "'Oh, dear me, Lord Wychester!' says she. 'If you're looking for bones,' says she, 'that blonde is a regular glue-factory!'" He caught his breath. "'A regular glue-factory,'" she repeated, inviting sympathy. "That's what she said." "Did you cry?" "Not me!" she scorned. "Cry? Not me! Not for no mountain like her!" "And what," he asked, "did Lord Wychester do?" "'Back to the side-show, Duchess!' says Lord Wychester. 'You're too fat for decent company. My friend the Dook,' says he, 'may be partial to fat ladies and ten-cent freaks; but my taste runs to slim blondes.'" No amusement was excited by Lord Wychester's second sally. In the world she knew, it would have provoked a shout of laughter. The boy's gravity disquieted her. "Did you laugh?" he asked. "Everybody," she answered, pitifully, "give her the laugh." He sighed--somewhat wistfully. "I wish," he said, "that you hadn't." "Why not!" she wondered, in genuine surprise. "I don't know." "Why, dear!" she exclaimed, a note of alarm in her voice. "It isn't bad manners! Anyhow," she qualified, quick to catch her cue, "I didn't laugh much. I hardly laughed at all. I don't believe I did laugh." "I'm glad," he said. Then, "I'm sure of it," she ventured, boldly; and she observed with relief that he was not incredulous. "Did the Duchess cry?" "Oh, my, no! 'Waiter,' says the Duchess, 'open another bottle of that wine. I feel faint.'" "What did Lord Wychester do then?" "He paid for the wine." It occurred to her that she might now surely delight him. "Then he wanted to buy a bottle for me," she continued, eagerly, "just to spite the Duchess. 'If she can have wine,' says he, 'there isn't no good reason why you got to go dry.' But I couldn't see it. 'Oh, come on!' says he. 'What's the matter with you? Have a drink.' 'No, you don't!' says I. 'Why not?' says he." She drew the boy a little closer, and, in the pause she patted his hand. "'Because,' says I," she whispered, tenderly, "'I got a son; and I don't want him to do no drinking when he grows up!'" She paused again--that the effect of the words and of the caress might not be interrupted. "'Come off!' says Lord Wychester," she went on; "'you haven't got no son.' 'You wouldn't think to look at me,' says I, 'that I got a son seven years old the twenty-third of last month.' 'To the tall timber!' says he. 'You're too young and pretty. I'll give you a thousand dollars for a kiss.' 'No, you don't!' says I. 'Why not?' says he. 'Because,' says I, 'you don't.' 'I'll give you two thousand,' says he." She was interrupted by the boy; his arms were anxiously stealing round her neck. "'Three thousand!' says he." "Mother," the boy whispered, "did you give it to him?" Again, she drew him to her: as all mothers will, when, in the twilight, they tell tales to their children, and the climax approaches. "'Four thousand!' says he." "Mother," the boy implored, "tell me quick! What did you say?" "'Lord Wychester,' says I, 'I don't give kisses,' says I, 'because my son doesn't want me to do no such thing! No, sir! Not for a million dollars!'" She was then made happy by his rapturous affection; and she now first perceived--in a benighted way--that virtue was more appealing to him than the sum of her physical attractions. Upon this new thought she pondered. She was unable to reduce it to formal terms, to be sure; but she felt a new delight, a new hope, and was uplifted, though she knew not why. Later--at the crisis of their lives--the perception returned with sufficient strength to illuminate her way....
"Slim blondes," she corrected. "Bleached blondes?" She was appalled by the disclosure; and she was taken unaware: nor did she dare discover the extent, the significance, of this new sophistication, nor whence it came, lest she be all at once involved in a tangle of explanation, from which there could be no sure issue. She sighed; her head drooped, until it rested on his shoulder, her wet lashes against his cheek--despairing, helpless. "What makes you sad?" he asked. Then she gathered impetuous courage. She must be calm, she knew; but she must divert him. "See," she began, "what it says about your mother in the paper!" She ran her finger down a long column of the fulsome description of the great Multon ball--the list of fashionables, the costumes. "Here it is! 'She was the loveliest woman at the dance.' That's me. 'All the men said so. What if she is a bleached blonde? Some people says that bleached blondes is no good. It's a lie!'" she cried, passionately, to the bewilderment of the boy. "'God help them! There's honest people everywhere.' Are you listening? Here's more about me. 'She does the best she can. Maybe she don't amount to much, maybe she is a bleached blonde; but she does the best she can. She never done no wrong in all her life. She loves her son too much for that. Oh, she loves her son! She'd rather die than have him feel ashamed of her. There isn't a better woman in the world, There isn't a better mother----'" He clapped his hands. "Don't you believe it?" she demanded. "Don't you believe what the paper says?" "It's true!" he cried. "It's all true!" "How do you know," she whispered, intensely, "that it's all true?" "I--just--feel it!" They were interrupted by the clock. It struck seven times....
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