“I’ve heard of her.” Ursula’s attention was again caught.
Lucy sighed. “They was very rich people. They had five children. They couldn’t keep a nursemaid, or a governess, or a tutor, and even the cooks kept leavin’, and the butler and the chambermaids. It was the children. They had everythin’ their own way, all the time; spoiled to death. Even when company came to the house, they was permitted to race around like—like hellions and such—all through the drawing-rooms, and stick out their tongues at the guests, or shout, or bully, and their ma thought it was high spirits, and then she’d get mad if the guests didn’t like it, and there was the old lady, Mr. Enright-Dawson’s mother, who came one Christmas, and then went home in her carriage half-way through the Christmas dinner, saying she’d never again set foot in that house until the children’s ma had come to her senses. That’s what she said, Miss Wende, and Mr. Enright-Dawson was so ashamed. You see, he’d try to control the children, but it was no use, and his mother walked out of the house sayin’ that that’s all he deserved.”
Lucy continued, with evident distress: “There was Lawrence, the eldest boy, sixteen. His ma called him ‘mettlesome.’ But, ma’am, it wasn’t that. He was just rotten spoiled, and had a bad temper, and never learned any manners, because, his ma said, he wasn’t to be ‘brutalized.’ He wanted a horse of his own, and his pa said no, he didn’t know how to treat any creature, human or animal, but his ma bought him the horse. Then he’d go a-tearin’ around the country, like wild, and he didn’t care what was in the way, and he rode down a little girl, a farmer’s child, and killed her.”
“How terrible!” said Ursula, shocked.
“Yes, Miss Wende. It was terrible. His pa was all for lettin’ him suffer the consequences, but his ma came rushin’ to the rescue. I don’t know how it was done, but the farmer got some money, and Lawrence, against all his ma’s tears, got packed off to school. I left soon after, because little Godfrey kicked me hard in the knee when I was tryin’ to get him to mind, and I’d had all I could stand, anyway. So I came back home to Andersburg, and I’ve been with Oliver ever since Mr. Prescott ’dopted him.”
During all this, Oliver had sat quietly, as if listening intently. His great dark eyes wandered from one woman to another, and when he caught a glance, he smiled gravely. Ursula looked at him.
“But Oliver has not been spoiled,” she remarked.
“No, ma’am, and it’s a miracle why he hasn’t, everybody bein’ ordered not to cross him, but to give in to him. ‘I’ll not have him warped,’ Mr. Prescott said, when I came to work for him. ‘Nobody is going to cripple this child’s mind or break his will.’ As if anybody with sense would want to break a baby’s will, whatever that is! But in spite of everything, Oliver is good, so good, ma’am! Children can be so mean, ma’am, you’ve no idea,” added the girl, anxiously.
“Yes, I know very well,” said Ursula encouragingly.
“Well,” sighed Lucy.
Oliver smiled contentedly. He gently took one of Lucy’s yellow ringlets and gave it a playful tug. His eyes sparkled gleefully at her when, in mock anger, she shook a finger at him and released her ringlet. Ursula laughed. But the old sensation of impending calamity came to her, and she had the strangest thought: I ought not to marry William. What if there are other children? What will he make of them, with his perverted convictions?
“Not that Oliver’s an angel,” Lucy went on, oppressed by Ursula’s sad face. “He’s a healthy baby, and has his tempers, but you can talk to him, little as he is. You can tell him what’s right and wrong. But only behind Mr. Prescott’s back. He wouldn’t stand for it. But I do my best.”
Ursula was very moved. “You are such a good, sensible girl, Lucy!” She went on: “I do hope that you’ll never leave us.”
Again, Lucy’s face darkened, and her soft blunt features became obstinate. “I hope I never have to, ma’am. But—”
“But what, Lucy?”
“Oh, ma’am, I shouldn’t be talkin’ to you as I’ve been doin’, you about to marry Mr. Prescott and all! It’s not my place.” Now she was horrified.
“Lucy,” said Ursula, very quietly, “I have asked you to talk to me. And why isn’t it your place? What foolishness. You see, Lucy, I want to know. I remember that day when I first saw you.”
At this, bright distrust leapt into Lucy’s eyes, and a hard wariness. She scrutinized Ursula, her lips pursed together, her head on one side. She did not answer.
“Lucy,” pleaded Ursula, “don’t look at me like that. I beg of you to trust me. I know you think this conversation very extraordinary. But I must know everything possible. Won’t you have faith in me?”
Lucy colored again, dropped her eyes. “Well, ma’am, it is kind of funny to be talkin’ to you like this. I shouldn’t be. It’s impudent.” She looked up swiftly, and said, with recklessness: “If you want me to talk, Miss Wende, I will, and I do trust you! I never heard of Mr. Prescott until I came back here a year ago, but I’ve heard talk. He comes from plain common folks, like me, and they say he hates us all.” Resentment flared on her face. “I wouldn’t mind if it was puttin’ on airs. Poor folks who get rich always put on airs, and it makes the rest of us laugh, and we don’t mind much. But Mr. Prescott don’t put on airs. And he pays good money to everybody who works for him, sometimes more money than they’ve ever seen before. But he looks at us as if we’re lower than dirt.” She seemed bewildered. “Why should he hate us, ma’am? He’s one of us, even if he did get rich.”
Ursula rose and went to the window. The hills beyond were plum-colored in the twilight.
Lucy got to her sturdy feet. “And now, ma’am, if you don’t mind, I’ll go down and give Oliver his dinner. It’s almost time for his bed.”
CHAPTER IX
On May 10th, William Prescott returned from New York, and went immediately to the large room at the bank, which Mr. Bassett reserved for conferences. As prearranged, he found there, waiting for him, a beaming but secretive Mr. Bassett, Mr. Albert Jenkins (whose thin and ruddy face was now exceptionally pale and drawn), ex-Judge Oscar Muehller, Mr. Hazlitt Leslie, of the Leslie Carriage Company, former State Senator Kenneth Whiscomb, Dr. Eli Banks, Chauncey Arnold, and a somber recording-clerk who showed, by his expression, that he realized the immense importance of this event.
William Prescott, dressed in the latest and most elegant costume, recently purchased in New York, entered the conference room and, with one accord and quite involuntarily, every gentleman but Mr. Arnold rose with embarrassed, gloomy or respectful alacrity to greet him. He stood for a moment on the threshold, and every eye studied him warily and intently, with hatred, interest, suspicion, secret contempt, or dread, according to what each man expected of this command interview.
Mr. Prescott made a most impressive figure, there on the threshold. Some hidden excitement and triumph made his face most expressive and eloquent; his small, flat gray eyes glittered. He gave out an emanation of extraordinary vitality and power, and his features, on certain occasions so dull and coarse, today were alive and mobile. Each man, looking at William, felt himself thick, clumsy, insignificant or old, sensations not inclined to warm the heart towards this alien and dangerous man.
“Gentlemen,” said small, plump Mr. Bassett sonorously, with a wave of his hand in a manner suspiciously histrionic, “Mr. Prescott. Mr. Prescott, sir, I believe you know Mr. Chauncey Arnold (here William tried not to smile), Senator Whiscomb, Mr. Hazlitt Leslie, Judge Oscar Muehller, Mr. Albert Jenkins, Dr. Eli Banks.”
William bowed. The other gentlemen bobbed briefly. William advanced into the room and, directed grandly by Mr. Bassett, took his seat at the banker’s right hand.
The other gentlemen seated themselves. A heavy and oppressive silence fell on the company. The smoke of cigars rose from half a dozen receptacles; the spring sunlight mingled with it; in the stillness street-sounds became loud. Mr. Bassett glowed, but the glow was becoming embarrassed. Even the banker’s aplomb took on a static and uneas
y quality.
Mr. Bassett cleared his throat. “I have told you a great deal, gentlemen. Suppose we now allow Mr. Prescott to outline his plans for us.”
He inclined his head graciously towards William, who was not in the least ill-at-ease, but had been sitting and studying the other men with a hard candor which they found disconcerting.
He spoke at once: “Mr. Bassett, apparently, has outlined much to you. Let me make a brief résumé.” He let his eyes wander quickly from face to face. “Mr. Bassett held notes in the amount of $40,000 or more, money borrowed from this bank by Mr. Arnold, who had hoped to expand the American Lumber Company.” He smiled faintly. “Unfortunately,” he continued, “Mr. Arnold’s plans did not mature. Mr. Arnold had given as collateral for the money, his controlling stock in the American Lumber Company. The stock, as it now stands, is practically worthless. I intend to complete arrangements with the bank to take over that stock so that it may not suffer an irreparable blow. You know, of course, what such a loss would mean to the soundness of the bank! And to the community. I am paying, therefore, the par value of the stock, and a premium to compensate the bank for the interest due on the loan.”
The cigars still smoked idly, and the air became charged with uncertainty and perplexity. No one spoke, for fear was in the room now, and excitement. Mr. Bassett, however, smiled, inclined his head, became rosier. He coughed. Unctuously, then, he said to all the watchful faces: “I had no choice. Moreover, I thought it amazingly good of Mr. Prescott. I agreed to sell the stock to him but, first, he asked that you gentlemen be called to a meeting of directors, to hold a new election for officers. Mr. Prescott, sir,” and now he turned majestically to William, “I now offer you the stock, at your figure. You will hold a majority of the stock. I congratulate you, sir. Also, I congratulate these gentlemen, whose personal investments are now secure.”
Mr. Chauncey Arnold was a huge fat gentleman, whose clothing always seemed about to burst under the pressure of his bulk. His great scarlet face had turned a pasty color; his tiny black eyes fixed themselves upon William with a look of virulent hatred and despair. He did not speak. Here was the man who had destroyed him, who was about to seize control of the American Lumber Company, which he, Mr. Arnold, had incorporated, had built up with his own hands, had established as a dignified and prosperous organization. It was almost more than he could endure. This thief and rascal! There he sat now, dressed to kill, smiling darkly and easily—this contemptible wretch who had worked as a humble clerk in Arnold’s office, learning gratefully, applying himself energetically, and awaiting the day when he could cut his benefactor’s throat and debase him before a whole city!
Mr. Arnold turned his suffused eyes towards Bassett, and their expression was hardly less murderous than when they had looked at William Prescott. Bassett, the pink fat slug, who had betrayed him like this! Some way could have been found; some way could have been contrived so that he, Chauncey Arnold, might not have been entirely ruined. At this point, Mr. Arnold’s inflamed mind became a confusion of rage, desperation and abhorrence. He had lost all power of reason. He hated everyone, from Prescott to Bassett, from Bassett to all these others, his friends and neighbors, his directors and stockholders, who, less than six months ago, had fawned upon him, and had listened weightily whenever he spoke.
Those whom he now regarded with such loathing and wretchedness were actually smiling widely, and with relief, upon the man who had degraded and destroyed him. They were leaning towards William, and every eye sparkled eagerly. Mr. Jenkins, alone, had not recovered his color, and his thin face had become a wedge of venom. He, too, had his private thoughts.
Mr. Prescott began to speak, very quietly but clearly, almost with indifference, like a schoolmaster who speaks by rote: “You have heard that I have now organized the Prescott Lumber Company. As I shall have the controlling interest in the American Lumber Company, it is my plan, with your approval as officers and sole stockholders, to merge the American Lumber Company with my Company, to issue additional shares in the amount of the American Lumber Company stock outstanding, and exchange share for share. I am sure you will see the benefit of becoming shareholders in a strong and progressive company, instead of in one both stagnant, and,” he paused for an instant, “practically defunct.”
A few faces changed and darkened. It was bitter to look at this man, this pariah, this “outsider,” and to feel so impotent. It was worse to avoid looking at Chauncey Arnold, who sat there more acute to their senses than he had ever been before, and to pretend that he felt nothing, and had nothing more at stake than themselves, and was still one of them.
As for William Prescott, he sat there quietly enough. “Gentlemen,” he said, “you have no choice.” He waited. No one spoke. He spoke louder now: “I do not intend that the Prescott Lumber Company remain a picayune local concern. I expect to have branches all over the country, and the Territories, too, where lumber is cheap and abundant. I have immense orders. I am being heavily financed by—a certain New York gentleman.” He was silent, as if waiting. No one spoke; there were a few quiet and portentous nods. “America is expanding enormously. The day of agricultural dominance is declining. This is the day of the city. Lumber will be needed in unbelievable quantities for all industries, and for construction. I have already bought up options on immense forests, not only in the Western states but in the Territories. I am no tyro. I know lumber. I expect to go as far as South America, for mahogany and other fine woods. There is no limit to my plans. There is no limit to what the Prescott Lumber Company can do. Gentlemen,” he concluded, “you either join me in an enterprise which will make all of us wealthy, or you retain your stock in the American Lumber Company and suffer tremendous losses.”
No one spoke, even now. They knew they could do nothing, would do nothing. They had decided that at once. After all, quixotic sentimentality had no place in business, not even where a friend was concerned. Everything but “soundness” and money was nonsense. All at once the air was filled with an almost wild excitement and jubilation.
William felt this, and suddenly every hard strong bone in his face became prominent with cynical acknowledgment and disgust. Here they were, all those who had despised him in his youth, had bullied him in his young manhood whenever they had encountered him in the offices of Chauncey Arnold, had ignored his existence on the streets and in other public places. And now, here they were, bestowing the respect and homage upon him which they had never bestowed on any other creature, not even on their ministers, and certainly not on their God. And just for money! All at once, he was sick of them, sick of their avarice and their cupidity, sick of their mercilessness and their smallness, sick, not only of them, but of a whole world which would gladly, even passionately, destroy all decency, all friendship—just for money!
Yet, he thought, I, too, want money, am willing to do anything to get it. But not for the reasons for which they want it, not for the mere possession of it, or even for the power of it. I want it so that I can be independent of such men, of all men, so that at no time can they hurt or injure me again. I want to be free of the whole world, locked in an invulnerable fortress, where creatures like this can never successfully attack me—or my children. Dr. Cowlesbury was right: A sensible man makes it a point to gather together as much money as possible, as soon as possible, so that he can henceforth be safe from his own kind, and can live in peace. A lion has his claws and teeth, an elephant has his strength, a fox has his cunning—to defend himself. And man must have money.
William’s thoughts had wandered back to that house in the woods, and it was some moments before he became aware that there was a change in the atmosphere, disturbed and tense. He looked up quickly. Chauncey Arnold had struggled to his feet, a vast and heavy lump of shaking flesh. He was leaning his clenched fists on the table; slowly, he swung the mighty bulk of his head from one of his erstwhile friends to another, his face a dark and swollen crimson. He was like a cornered bull in chains, still full of desperate fight and violen
t terror. His voice also was like a bull’s, roaring and clamoring:
“You will let this—this man destroy me—me, your friend and neighbor for fifty years?” He shouted this, incredulously. “You will desert me in my extremity, which he brought about? You will connive with him—you, who only a few weeks ago told me you detested him, and that you would work with me to throw him back into the gutter where he belongs?”
His small black eyes, sunken in the folds of scarlet flesh, both glared and pleaded. “Judge Muehller! Senator Whiscomb! Leslie! Jenkins! Doc Banks! You would do this to me?”
No one answered him. The sunlit room became full of a shameful silence. Every head turned aside furtively. But William Prescott looked full at his former employer and smiled.
Mr. Arnold uttered a choking sound. He put a thick finger between his cravat and his neck. Now he had turned a frightening purple. He stammered: “Can’t one of you answer me? Isn’t there one among you with one decent impulse left? Look at me! Dare to look at me!”
William Prescott waited. He, too, looked about the table with his slow and piercing stare.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “Mr. Arnold is waiting for your answer.”
Still, no one spoke, no one looked at Mr. Arnold. Even Albert Jenkins, though his expression was tight and vicious, did not turn to his old friend.
“My God!” cried Mr. Arnold, and he sat down suddenly, pressed his face into his clenched fists.
“Now, now, Chauncey,” said Mr. Bassett uneasily, after a long moment. He coughed. “One must accept things, Chauncey. You are making matters very hard for us. What can we do? Let us be reasonable.”
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