Their brief encounters left William with a feeling of uneasiness. In his mind, he rationalized this by telling himself that Eugene was like his father. Instinctively he knew it was not so, but he had no other explanation.
A month before the final collapse of the American Lumber Company, Eugene had listened more attentively to Chauncey’s wild condemnation of William Prescott. He had made no comment, but, as he had a strange pity for his father—a pity he never felt for anyone else—he had touched his father’s hand in consolation. Later, he said to his mother: “Papa just doesn’t see that Mr. Prescott is a man who knows what he wants, and intends to have it. I can understand that. In his place, I’d do just what he is trying to do, but I’d do it without all that trumpeting.”
Alice was more than a little shocked by her son’s remarks. “But, my dear, Mr. Prescott appears to be a very unscrupulous man, and a bad one, because he is without honor and kindness.” She paused. “What do you mean by ‘trumpeting’, Gene? Mr. Prescott impressed me as being a very quiet man.”
“He trumpets inside,” said the astute young Eugene, much to Alice’s bafflement.
Eugene knew it was all inevitable. Yet when Chauncey returned home on that last disastrous night, ill, raving, congested of face, in a state of collapse, the boy’s imperturbability was temporarily shattered. He helped put his father to bed. At midnight when Alice tearfully begged him to go to bed also, he refused. He insisted upon sitting up with Chauncey, listening carefully to the weeping man’s curses, his despairing cries of ruin. Even discounting the exaggerations of a man in his state, Eugene knew that the situation was alarming enough. He sat in the lamplight, while his father slept fitfully under the influence of sedatives, and moaned. He looked about the large rich bedroom. All this, of course, would have to go, probably by auction. It would interfere with everything, this débacle. He, Eugene, would no longer be respected at school, as the son of Andersburg’s rich man. His pony would have to go; the three handsome carriages would have to be sold, and the servants dismissed. Temporarily, at least, the family would retire to ignominy and poverty. Eugene had no faith in the loyalty of his father’s many friends. Friendship was too much a matter of success and bank accounts. Things would be very wretched, almost insupportable, because of the treachery and ambition of a ruthless man.
For a few moments Eugene allowed himself a natural and childlike emotion of hatred and bitterness towards William Prescott. Then he knew that this was foolish. From the moment William had become an employee of Chauncey Arnold it had been inevitable. Only a very silly person could have overlooked it. It had been so obvious to Eugene, so foreordained. His father had been a fool; he had lacked the capacity to understand, or even to see, what was right under his nose.
It was very silly of his father, Eugene meditated, to have refused the offer of a position in the Prescott Lumber Company, though Alice had tenderly applauded the “pride” of her husband. Three thousand dollars a year was a lot of money; the family needed that money. Even while Eugene gently held his father’s hand, he felt an indulgent contempt for him. Once in the enemy’s fortress, something might be accomplished. It was all very foolish, quixotic. Intelligent people did not do these things.
On the day that William Prescott married Ursula Wende, Chauncey Arnold died. Eugene did not cry. He stood by his father’s coffin and looked down at him steadfastly. He did not cry at the funeral services, nor at the cemetery, where only a few furtive “friends” hurriedly appeared. He saw that his mother observed it all only too well, this small attendance, these averted faces, these awkward and uncomfortable notes in consoling voices. She did not seem bitter; her own grief was too intense, and she was too absorbed in it. Eugene, driving home with her to an empty house still haunted by the scent of funeral flowers, was silent and thoughtful, and there was a knot in the pale flesh between his light eyebrows.
At his own request, he slept on a couch in his mother’s room that night. He did not fall asleep until morning, but pretended to do so, in order not to disturb Alice. He lay awake and listened to her helpless and half-stifled sobbing. He was still young, and he still loved his mother, and his hands gripped the quilts fiercely as he heard her subdued mourning. The dark house lay empty all about them. His father was gone. It was not until Eugene, himself, had cried a little that he could sleep.
Few friends called during the next days, and even these had a sheepish and embarrassed air. Eugene listened carefully to their vague offers of assistance, their attempts at sympathy. He smiled faintly and tightly. His mother listened in silence, but when the friends had gone, she would sometimes murmur: “How terrible. How very, very terrible.”
This was folly. Eugene understood, with his intelligence, the whole meaning of what she murmured. Now, for the first time, he allowed himself to consider his mother a fool. In the past, her sentimental compassion had been only amusing; now, it was a source of danger.
After six days, he said calmly to Alice: “I suppose there is enough to see me through school?”
Alice responded vaguely in the affirmative. Her exhausted eyes quickened. “My poor, sweet darling,” she said. “Of course, you must return to school, and on Monday.” She paused, and sighed. “There was a little fund just for your schooling, dear. Papa laid that aside, separately, in your name, only two months ago. The Courts cannot take that away from us. As for myself, I still have my original money. It is not much, but it will keep us alive, until you are ready to make your own way in the world.”
Two weeks later, a check for two thousand dollars arrived from William Prescott, accompanied by a stiff note of condolence. He had expressed his regret at the death of Chauncey Arnold; he “hoped” Mrs. Arnold would not hesitate to call upon him if she at any time needed assistance.
Alice read and reread the note. The check slipped to the floor. Suddenly, she began to sob again. “I ought to hate him,” she said to Eugene. “But I cannot do it. The poor man.”
Eugene looked at her without expression. Yes, his mother was a fool. He picked up the check. “This money?” he said. His fingers held it tightly.
“I must send it back at once, of course,” she answered.
Eugene gave her the check. Once he had thought her a wise woman, in her somewhat befuddled way. But now, it was only too evident that she was a fool. He accepted the fact. One always had to accept facts.
CHAPTER XII
The wedding was celebrated at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Bassett with as much pomp and lavishness as could be summoned up on such short notice. Mrs. Bassett did all she could. She was horrified when Ursula insisted upon being married in the “home-made” blue dress which Ursula had concocted, and which she had already worn. Ursula was obdurate. She had worn that dress on the night when William had proposed to her; she would wear it on her wedding-day. “Really, Ursula is becoming so stubborn,” Mrs. Bassett tearfully confided to her husband. “But then, she is of German stock, and everyone knows that the Germans are obstinate people. However, she might have consented to a veil of sorts. A veil is absolutely necessary.”
“Old maids,” said Mr. Bassett, wisely, but not without rancor. He had intended this wedding to be quite an affair, entrenching himself as William Prescott’s most important and influential friend. Ursula’s guest-list did not please him. She had invited the most unlikely and insignificant people, including bearded old friends of August’s, of whom nobody in the financial and business world had ever heard. They came, smelling mustily of moth-balls and snuff and tobacco; no one, except Ursula, noticed their intelligent and broodingly thoughtful eyes. They had written historical text-books, mathematical textbooks, books of philosophy, books laden with heavy German poetry and quotations from Goethe and Schiller. Who cared for such people? Certainly not Mr. Bassett, who could not recall them as depositors of any substance.
William refused to invite Mr. Jay Regan, or any of his New York friends. This was a profound disappointment to Mr. Bassett. But Ursula, relenting, at last, allowed Mrs. Bassett, “her
dearest friend,” to fill out the guest-list with “prominent” people. She also relented to the extent of permitting her wide, yellow-straw hat to be engulfed in yards of blue veiling, which was to cover her face during the ceremony.
Mr. Prescott was the only “awkward” member of the party, if one discounted and ignored, as one did, the peculiar old men whom Ursula had invited. William was, as always, reticent, harsh, gloomy of smile. Nevertheless, to quote Mrs. Bassett, he carried things off very well indeed. Not once did he fumble. Moreover, he betrayed complete engrossment in his bride. Even after the ceremony (held in the Bassetts’ drawing-room, appropriately banked with spring flowers, the organ properly played under the guidance of the minister’s wife), he haunted his newly-wed wife as satisfactorily as any newly-hatched husband. He must already have been taught some manners by Ursula, for he seemed very interested in her father’s old friends. Once, at least, he engaged in one or two heated arguments with a few of them; he thought Bismarck a very remarkable man; they disagreed with him with the courteous tenacity of the old and scholarly. He drank half a glass of champagne; he smoked nothing. Only Ursula knew he was embarrassed to the point of agony, though he had quite approved of so elaborate a wedding. He talked enough with his new directors and officers, but in such a short, arrogant and suspicious manner that she suffered for him.
She was also proud of him. In his long broadcloth cutaway and striped trousers and well folded black cravat and black pearls, he was easily the most impressive man present. But she saw that he made all near him uneasy by his very formidable manner.
She herself was so nervous and distraught that she had only passing, if poignant, impressions of these things. At the very last, before going downstairs on Mr. Bassett’s arm, something had warned her: “This is impossible. This is a terrible thing I am about to do to myself.”
Ursula thought of the long years ahead, and was afraid. Once, she fervently prayed she would have no children. She was sure she would not be able to manage William. There was a hard obduracy about him, which mature love could not reach. Also, he was immune to reason, especially where his emotions were concerned.
But she loved him. She stood beside him, straight and tall, her eyes sparkling behind the foolish blue veil, her pale face very tight and resolute, and made her vows clearly and strongly. She was committed; this was the thing she wished to do. If she was frightened, she would not now permit herself to acknowledge it.
Nothing mattered. She loved him. He loved her, even in his strange way. Yet she wished he were not quite so much the spectre at the feast. Once, hysterically, she thought how gay the wedding dinner would be if only the bridegroom would eliminate himself! It was an absurd thought, but she could not rid herself of the conviction that everyone would have enjoyed himself so much more if the tall and stiff-legged figure of William Prescott had not been present. He had a dampening effect on laughter; voices died away when he approached; nervousness manifested itself when he spoke. He was not the only spectre there; Chauncey Arnold’s ghost-face was in every shadow.
Ursula saw that everyone was afraid of William. The fools, did they not know that he most needed their pity and tenderness? Why could they not have a moment’s intuition, perceive his loneliness, his insecurity, his uncertainty, as she perceived them?
Sometimes she glanced at William, as he stood beside her, and met his reluctant and saturnine smile. He stayed near her, for he trusted no one else. This both saddened her and made her happy. She tried to talk to him; to her consternation, she found she had nothing to say. Her throat was dry and tight. What did one say to one’s bridegroom, whose wedding kiss was still strong on one’s lips? Trivialities? One never could talk trivialities to William. Finally, to her dismay, she heard herself remarking: “I do hope little Oliver is well. We must take him a piece of the wedding-cake.” Little Oliver! Of what importance was a small child now, at this moment, when one was married to a frightening stranger?
To her confused surprise, he replied spontaneously, and as if with pleasure: “Yes, we must not forget the cake. He would never forgive us.”
It was ridiculous. William had spoken quite seriously, as if she had made an intelligent remark! She studied him to discover if he were joking; he was not. In fact, he was now selecting a special white box for the cake, and Mrs. Bassett was assisting him in choosing exactly the right size. “My son, Oliver, expects it,” he was saying, and Mrs. Bassett beamed at him. Ursula was forgotten, she the bride, the woman, the presumably beloved. She pushed the blue veil farther away from her face with vexation.
Everything was disjointed, out of place, grotesque. All at once, she was very tired. Moreover, she was alarmed and afraid. It could not be explained. She looked at William’s back steadily, tried to find strength for herself in his tall figure, his profile, the sound of his voice. Nothing came to her but a great loneliness.
It had been a warm and rainy day, ominous with a storm which never broke. At sunset, just when dinner was over, the rain ceased. But the oppression remained. Ursula slipped through the congested groups of friends, who were sluggish with food and champagne. She found her way to a window and, in this awful great loneliness, she stood and looked at it, rather than through it.
She felt the immense silence of the darkening evening. The sky appeared to press itself against the window, a dim but intense blue, gem-tinted and flat, like the blue of the background of some illumination in a medieval missal. Across it sloped the dark shape of a leafing bough and, beyond, the darker mass of a more distant tree lifted itself. It was from that sky that the stillness came; it had engulfed all sound on earth, had absorbed it into the canvas of its blue but motionless color. Not a bird cried nor a branch moved. For a few moments Ursula had the sensation that this sky had no depth, that it was painted against the window-glass.
The windows had been shut against the cataracts of spring rain. Now the house was very hot, the air heavy with perfumes, the odors of food and wine and flowers. Ursula felt that she must open the window to that pure turquoise blueness, that fading light. But the catch resisted her efforts. She turned about in exasperation, looking for assistance. It was then that she saw Dr. Banks whisper something to William. Near William stood his new officers and directors, and Ursula’s attention was immediately caught by their expressions, gloating, mean, ugly, sheepish or hating. They were like a pack of wolves around a larger wolf.
A change came over William. A servant had just finished lighting the enormous chandelier over the table. Its glaring light lay on William’s face. It was that, of course, which suddenly made him appear ghastly.
The tableau was broken in a moment, even while Ursula stared at it. It was nothing, nothing at all, only an effect of gaslight suddenly flaring out into the evening shadow. Now everyone was laughing again; fresh bottles of champagne popped. But William was turning away. He was speaking to Mrs. Bassett, and she was nodding archly. Though she could not hear the words, Ursula knew he spoke with an old-fashioned ceremoniousness. Whoever had taught William the formalities of a gentleman had been old, had lacked the light touch. Dr. Cowlesbury, naturally, thought Ursula.
Everyone knew there was to be no honeymoon at this time. The bridal couple was to go immediately, and alone, to the Imperial Hotel. Ursula, with a rush of almost hysterical thanksgiving, heard the crunch of wheels on the gravel below the window. In a few moments, she would be rid of all these people; she would go away with her husband. But her husband was a man she did not know.
Now a whole tide was rolling towards her, with laughter, with glasses upheld. She looked at them. She looked at William. Her first impression had been right; he was deadly pale, and his lips were fixed. She closed her eyes. Something was most terribly wrong.
Ursula’s acquaintance with the Imperial Hotel was almost entirely hearsay. Once or twice, she had accompanied her father there to meet, in the lobby or large open dining-room, a colleague of his from Philadelphia, New York or Boston. Their conversations had had to do with the donkey-stupidity
of students in general, the discussion of which had been, to them, a kind of catharsis enabling them to return to their classrooms refreshed and relieved, soothed by the knowledge that their own conviction that the whole human race was impervious to education was shared by unfortunate others.
The lobby was huge, paved with squares of black and white marble, ablaze with crystal chandeliers, crowded with gilt and red-plush, potted rubber-plants, masses of tables and close scatterings of rugs. An air of bustle pervaded the lobby. It pervaded the dining-room also, which glared even more than did the lobby, because of the reflection of gaslight on countless white tablecloths. Ursula had never seen the “suites” or bedrooms. She suspected, however, that the general scheme would be carried out there, also.
She was quite right, she saw with dismay, when she and William were ushered into William’s suite attended by a coterie of curious and subservient employees in red uniforms heavily reinforced with brass. A hushed and ponderous silence also attended them. The servitors disappeared, happy in the possession of much silver; the manager, Mr. Ogden, remained for a few moments, obsequious and concerned with the comfort of the guests. Flowers were everywhere in the hot rooms. Red plush curtains had been drawn across every window. Ursula had never cared for red; now, no matter where she looked, this ubiquitous color assaulted her in all shades, ranging from bright pink to scarlet to crimson. There was no escaping the massive gilt, either.
Her two modest little trunks had been deposited in one of the bedrooms. She fled into this bedroom, while William conversed with awkward gravity with Mr. Ogden, who seemed in no particular hurry to leave. Perhaps William was detaining him, thought Ursula. If so, she was grateful. She saw her face in the glass; it was pale and tight. It was an old maid’s face, more than a little censorious and drawn. The mirror also reflected the blue of her wedding-dress; the red of the room made this blue very intense and startling. She shuddered. Her first impulse was to remove it. She stopped with the initial hook; for the first time she was shy and nervous and embarrassed. She took off the yellow hat and tossed it upon the crimson counterpane. Again, she shuddered at the juxtaposition of the blue veil on the hat and the color of the bedspread. Feeling that she was rapidly losing control of herself, she caught up the hat and threw it into the great walnut wardrobe nearby, where she had hung her cloak, and her few dresses.