Let Love Come Last

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  “Reasonable!” groaned Mr. Arnold, rocking in his chair.

  “Realistic,” said Mr. Bassett, his pinkness fading. “What can we do? There are your notes for $40,000. Have you the money, Chauncey? Can you raise $40,000? If you can, then I swear that I will deliver the notes to you, and at once.”

  Mr. Arnold lifted his head. His huge face had crumpled. “You know I can’t raise the money, Ezra. You know that I borrowed it to expand my company, on the strength of the orders from the railroads, which had been practically promised me, and on which I had counted. Until this villain robbed me of them, with his lies and his schemings. Robbed me! I—I expanded. Now, well, you know what my balance is—”

  He beat his fists on the table. “But you can all help me out of this.

  You know my reputation. You know what I’ve been able to accomplish. You’ve had faith in me before. All of you. I can get out of this—if you’ll help me. I had a good sound going concern, until I was robbed. There isn’t one of you who can’t lend me part of this money. The whole six of you—you can lend me the $40,000 between you.” His breath appeared to be shut off, and he struggled to regain it. “You can help me. Why won’t you help me?”

  He waited. His despair was abject; he spread his hands out to each man in turn, and in turn, each man looked away. He turned deadly pale, and was silent.

  Mr. Bassett spoke tremulously, for he was not immune to conscience: “Chauncey, suppose you let Mr. Prescott speak. Then you’ll see that everything isn’t lost.” He looked at William. “Speak, Mr. Prescott. We are waiting.”

  “Gladly,” said William. “Gentlemen, Mr. Bassett has said that I have called this meeting for an election of officers for my new company. We have had a long consultation a little while ago. I intend to be president of the Prescott Lumber Company. For vice-president, I suggest Mr. Leslie; for secretary, Judge Muehller; for treasurer, Senator Whiscomb. For my board of directors, Mr. Bassett, Mr. Jenkins, Senator Whiscomb, Dr. Banks, Mr. Leslie.” He paused. Every man listened breathlessly, suddenly alert and electrified. William went on: “And Mr. Chauncey Arnold, for executive vice-president. At a salary of three thousand dollars a year.”

  Again, there was a tense silence in the room. Then, all at once, each man found his voice and shouted his enthusiastic acclamation. Everyone stood up, full of excitement, except Mr. Arnold, who sat in his chair and regarded William with profound hatred and misery.

  He watched them surround his former employee. He watched them shake William’s hand, throw their arms over his shoulder. He saw them forgetting him, abandoning him, ignoring him, thrusting his embarrassing presence from their awareness—that presence which had foolishly attempted to recall them to honor and the obligations of friendship. He was a gross man, and he had forgotten, in his own climb to success, what little honor and sense of obligation he had ever possessed.

  William’s part in this no longer seemed of much importance. What was important was the desertion of those who had been his friends, who could repudiate him for a mere adventurer and thief and scoundrel—for the sake of money.

  He had lost more than his company, his prestige and his money. He had lost what had made his whole existence worthwhile. He had lost the warmth of his home, his sense of security, his dignity as a man. To these men he was less than a stranger. Because of money. Because money was more to them than he was. More to them, he thought incoherently, as it would have been more to me.

  He stood up, trembling violently. The scraping of his chair, the shuffle of his feet, finally drew their unwilling attention. They surrounded William, but they looked at Chauncey Arnold, or, rather, they looked in his general direction with mingled defiance and sheepishness. Some faces expressed annoyance with him because he still had the power to embarrass and shame them.

  He stared steadfastly at William Prescott, and William Prescott stared as directly at him. He said: “Three thousand dollars. You dare to offer me—anything, you rascal and liar and blackguard. I can give you the only answer possible—no. No, not even if I starve.”

  “Now, Chauncey,” said Bassett, with discomfort.

  But Chauncey Arnold did not look at the banker. He looked only at William, who no longer smiled, and whose eyes were narrowed and still.

  “Swine,” said Mr. Arnold, quietly.

  He turned away. He looked about the room slowly, as if sudden disorientation had overpowered him. He shook his head from side to side in immense despair. Then, without another word, he shuffled slowly and ponderously from the room.

  That night, while Mr. Bassett entertained the new officers and directors of the Prescott Lumber Company at his home, and the wine was poured again and again into Mrs. Bassett’s best crystal glasses, and the sound of congratulation, genial laughter and warm voices filled the house, Mr. Arnold suffered a severe heart-attack. His wife did not call the old family physician and friend, Dr. Banks. She was compelled to call a comparative stranger. Dr. Banks was very busy that evening. He was one of the guests of Mr. Bassett, and he sat beside William Prescott and told the younger man some of his choicer jokes.

  It was almost impossible for William to unbend to anyone, except, perhaps, to children, of whom he was not instinctively afraid. So, though he attempted to smile easily, his eyes remained wary and morose, suspicious and watchful. He tried to reply to sallies and congratulations with some graciousness, some offhand remark, but his throat felt hard and stiff, and his facial muscles ached with the fixed smile he had imposed upon them. Once he thought: I hate them. There was a time when I considered them superior to the cattle with whom I was forced to associate when a child. Now I know they are superior only in cunning and in greed and ruthlessness. Bassett is no different from Gruber, who cheated my mother and hoarded his wages; Jenkins is a Carmer who pretended to fall down our front stairs, and threatened my mother until she gave him twenty-five dollars. Banks, that suave, medical charlatan, is brother to the mean poverty-stricken rascal who sent my mother a huge bill after my father’s last illness, knowing she partially owned the wretched house in which we lived, and in which my father had sunk a whole life’s saving. This Senator Whiscomb is the twin of the political thief, termed “inspector,” who forced my widowed mother to give him fifteen dollars, lest he report the “dangerous drains” in our house. Hazlitt Leslie is kin to the little murderous scoundrel who employed my father, and who paid my father nothing when he lost his arm in the saw-mill, and who let him die of the blood-poisoning. Oh yes, they have the law with them! They are all fine Christian gentlemen, these around this table! But they are one with the little liars and cheats and frauds who made our lives so frightful, when I was a child! Well, at least those hungry wretches had some justification, for they were half-starved also. These men here tonight have no excuse.

  A huge hatred for the conniving, treacherous and cruel human race pervaded him, so that he felt sick and shaken. His hand clenched about the wine glass he held; his face darkened and became fierce and ugly. And then he thought of Ursula, so cool, so gentle, so sensible and so kind, and of Oliver, who was a child and could do him no harm! He relaxed; he could turn to Dr. Banks, and pretend to be amused at the particularly luscious joke (which he had not heard) which the doctor had been telling him.

  Dr. Eli Banks was the typical “society doctor,” urbane, soft-spoken, rich of tone and solicitous in manner. He was careful to carry out his typicalness in his very exterior, for he was not only a tall, broad man of forty-five, clad in discreet black broadcloth, and wearing a black silk cravat nicely finished with a pearl pin, but he wore a neat thick brown beard, and an expression of kind thoughtfulness excellently calculated to soothe the sensibilities of hysterical ladies who had recently discovered that their husbands were bored with them.

  Judge Oscar Muehller (who had served only one term, for the obvious reason that he was a man without mercy or kindness or understanding) had the face of a saint and an ascetic, with a tall pure brow, a pair of sweet and pensive hazel eyes, and a reflectively tender mout
h. He had a soft and meditative voice, and could never be inveigled into a malicious remark about another.

  Mr. Hazlitt Leslie, owner of the Leslie Carriage Company, was also the owner of so ruddy and genial a face, so loud and merry a laugh, so gay an eye, and was so ready with a story, a fond remark to a friend, or a hearty handclasp, that no party of any consequence was considered complete without his twinkling presence. His fund of stories was held in even higher esteem than that of Dr. Banks. A big square man of forty-four, he was a delight to the ladies.

  Former Senator Kenneth Whiscomb did not resemble a politician. At first glance, overlooking the expensive untidiness of his clothing, one would have thought him a grocer. He was hardly taller than the rosy Mr. Bassett, and he had a floury but vigorous look, and was all bustle, gruffness and “forthright” opinions. He had not run for a second term, for the simple reason that he had not considered it expedient. His enemies had mentioned to him, discreetly, that there was a little matter of a contract for state roads, given to a friend, which roads had later been discovered to be constructed of very inferior materials.

  William Prescott was not ignorant of the character of these, his new officers and directors. But they were of the “best families,” and William Prescott had use for such families. They laughed and joked with him; they slapped him on the shoulder; they chided him affectionately as “a rare rascal,” they stared at him admiringly, even the now-reconciled Mr. Jenkins. Yet, well he knew, they despised him while they respected him; they thought him a very clever fellow, and forgot the friend they had betrayed for the opportunity to make money with him.

  They had raged at him among themselves, and they had cursed him—until today. They had delivered themselves of opinions about him—until today. They had been his indignant and loquacious enemies—until today. They wished, however, that, in appearance and manner, he were not quite such a “queer fellow.” It would be easier to accept him, they reflected, had he more resembled themselves. There was an etiquette in finance; he had not learned that etiquette.

  Moreover, he regarded them oddly and keenly when they spoke, and his smile was dim and unpleasant. He did not lean back negligently in his chair, or exchange jokes. He sat upright, and very rigidly, and listened. They were suspicious of men who talked little, listened much, and watched everything. All this was quite correct, of course, for a new captain of industry. But he ought not to be so obvious about it, was the general opinion.

  At nine o’clock he stood up and announced abruptly that he must go. And he went, without another word, without glancing back once, without the formality of a hearty good-bye. He left them, and for a long time afterwards they only sat and smoked, and each man avoided his neighbor’s eye.

  CHAPTER X

  Mrs. Templeton had gone to bed, claiming a severe headache. She had been very dignified with Ursula, these last few days, and very stately, because of Lucy and Oliver. She had pointedly refrained from giving orders or suggestions to the nursemaid; she had, except when momentarily alone with the baby, pretended he did not exist. If Lucy asked her for advice, Mrs. Templeton, slightly raising her thin voice, would reply that “Miss Wende, I am sure, is more competent to answer these questions than I, who have borne three children—though God, in His infinite wisdom, saw fit to take them from me.” Under other circumstances, Ursula would have considered this amusing. But she was too racked with her own uncertainties and premonitions to be amused now.

  Ursula had, during these days, carefully searched for evidences of the “spoiling” of Oliver. But the young child serenely displayed consistent good temper, cheerful obedience and the rudiments of a sense of humor. An average child, subjected to such lack of discipline, to such wild and doting lack of restraint, would end up as an animal, demanding, greedy and irresponsible. Hence Ursula’s uneasiness and fear. Oliver was not like other children.

  She thought of possible coming children with intensity, and at one time she hoped, with real fervor, that she would have none. She was not fond of them; she was indifferent to them. Nevertheless, if she should have them she would owe them a duty, and that duty consisted in bringing them up to be self-controlled, civilized and mature men and women, full of responsibility towards their fellow creatures, and well-trained to make as little nuisance of themselves as possible.

  During the first day or two, Oliver talked of “Papa” somewhat uneasily, and searched for William. Later, he seemed to forget. This will never do, thought Ursula. So she spoke of William; a child forgot so quickly, and Ursula had no intention of letting William be forgotten by Oliver.

  Lucy, in the meantime, had become Ursula’s most devoted friend and admirer. The two young women found much pleasure in each other’s company. Lucy had such common sense, such a blunt awareness of reality. She was in love with the coachman, John Shaeffer, who came of an Amish family. John was no longer Amish, but he retained, in his character and in his manners and sober conversation, much of the esteemed traits of his people. Each day, he brought the carriage around to give the three women, and Oliver, their airing. He and Lucy intended to be married in the late summer, as soon as Lucy had provided, from her wages, the minimum supply of linens. Ursula, investigating the big trunks and shelves, which her prudent German mother had filled with excellent sheets, towels, pillow-cases, and tablecloths to be bequeathed to children, grandchildren, and so on ad infinitum, discovered many articles which could be spared for Lucy.

  Everything, therefore, appeared most propitious, and Ursula, when alone in the evenings, could have uninterrupted hours in which to think of William Prescott. Most of these hours could be, and were, very exciting. But many of them had their pain, their premonitions, their uncertainties, especially on a night like this, full of rushing rain, crying wind in the eaves, and closed shutters.

  Half-past nine struck, tinkling softly against the background of vigorous spring wind and rain beating against windows. Except for Ursula, the whole house slept. The night was warm; there was no fire. The gracious little sitting-room was full of the scent of lilacs, freshly cut. The panelled walls gleamed in the lamplight; the portraits smiled down in friendly fashion on the young woman busy with her needlework near the cold fireplace. But, for Ursula, the night was full of voices. What would August think of the extraordinary man who was to marry his daughter? August’s influence on his daughter had been an influence on manners, on one’s approach to the outer world; he had never tampered with her emotions or opinions. If he had not agreed, he had merely shrugged his shoulders indolently, and had remarked that she had her own life to live, and that it was hers, alone. This, thought Ursula, with a touch of bitterness, was excellent in theory. But she suspected that August’s attitude stemmed less from tolerance than from a desire not to be bothered.

  There was a loud knock on her door, and Ursula started. The clock tinkled the three-quarters of an hour. Ursula listened for the stirring of Mrs. Templeton at this summons. But the house remained silent. It could be no one but William. Ursula set her mouth firmly and tightly, remembered that she was not to be a schoolmistress after all, let her lips relax, and went to the door.

  It was indeed William, sparkling with moisture from the top of his hard black hat to his handsome black broadcloth coat. And smiling. He very seldom smiled unless he had first observed a smile on the faces of others. He said at once: “Good evening. Is it very late? I arrived home this morning.”

  “So I heard,” replied Ursula, a little acidly. She opened the door wider, and let him in. She noticed at once that there was an air of dark exhilaration and grim excitement about him. He unbuttoned his coat, and she helped him remove it. Involuntarily, her hands touched his shoulders and lingered there, and a furious hot wave of something indescribable rushed over her.

  He marched ahead of her into her parlor, and then, abruptly, he simply stood there, and looked around. He swung about to face Ursula, and his eyes fixed themselves upon her face. She had the momentary impression that not only did he see her body, and her features, but th
e thoughts that lay coiled disquietedly in her brain. He continued to stare at her, as he said, a little absently: “I had much business to do. That is why I didn’t come before this.”

  He did not kiss me, thought Ursula. He has not even called me by my name. She stood before him, without speaking.

  “It was important business,” he said, and now it was as if she had challenged him.

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  He was still vaguely suspicious, but when he saw how tranquil she was, he subsided. “I meant to bring you flowers,” he said, a little lamely and impatiently.

  “I have a garden full,” she replied. Now she could not help smiling. “But thank you for the thought—William.”

  He rubbed his damp hands together. “But I did bring you a present from New York. From Cartier’s.” He glanced at her ring finger, and smiled again to see his extravagant emerald there. “My wedding gift. You shall have it on the day we are married.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He stared at her again. Then he said: “You look very tired and strained. Has Oliver been too much for you?” He glanced at the ceiling, then, not waiting for her reply, he exclaimed: “I must see Oliver at once!”

  Ursula said: “He has been asleep since six o’clock.”

  “What does that matter?” he demanded. “I want to see him. I’ll go upstairs,” and he actually moved towards the door.

  Ursula said clearly: “That would hardly be proper. This is a small house, and Lucy is sleeping in the same room.”

  He stopped on the threshold, swung upon her, and scowled at her. “That is wrong! I won’t have a servant sleeping in the same room! How could you have allowed that? It is unhealthful for the child.”

  Ursula colored faintly. “I am sorry,” she said, coldly. “I repeat, the house is small. I have three bedrooms. I occupy one, Mrs. Templeton another, and my father’s room is big enough for Lucy and Oliver.”